My mom

My mom died last Saturday night. Twenty years to the day that my father died. The irony in that is that my father was a non-drinking, non-smoking, healthy-eating runner who died at 73. She left me at 92. Never cared what she ate or drank and hated exercise. There’s a lesson there.

She was not a worrier. My father worried. “I’m not gonna dwell on it.” was her mantra. And she didn’t. I wish I could be like her. Currently I have a laundry list of things I’m worrying about including but not limited to . . . I won’t bore you with it.

But we were alike in a lot of ways. Food for instance. And art. And a fascination with small instances of beauty. A red leaf, a feather. Her house and apartments were filled with the tiny debris of that kind of fascination. I found this in her apartment when she was moving into assisted living. It is a feather that came out of one of her pillows and she put it in this plastic box. I totally get it. I have it hanging in my kitchen now.

Bye mom. I love you.

24 Replies to “My mom”

  1. This is perfect. I feel that “get” her by your tribute and I understand the feather perfectly. She was lucky to have you all.

  2. Dear Michael, the only solace is that parents are supposed to die before their children. That is the right order of the world. She will still always be your mother. My condolences, Jean

  3. It’s a gift to not feel the need to worry and possibly a secret to a good long life. We can all learn from your Mom.

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