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.