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by admin

My mom died almost 25 years ago after a six-week battle with metastasized lung cancer. When she had first died, she was in my mind all the time. Either I was thinking of her directly, or she was there indirectly, ghosting behind my thoughts. Now, sometimes weeks go by, and I realize I haven’t thought of her once.

Today, however, I feel like she is with me all the time – in the unexpectedly balmy air, in the jaunty green hat showcased in the shop window, in a bus banner advertising an upcoming Japanese Ceramic exhibit.

In these instances, she is more feeling than thought, yet still we have a conversation. It is as if she’s touching my most quintessential self, that which is at the heart of my individuality, separate from myself as wife, mother, and friend. In return, I open to her the most honest and pure sense of me. It is a reckoning of the best sort as anxieties, frustrations, pleasures all come bubbling up. Always, she reminds me that imperfections and fragilities are also opportunities, that I am okay, even when evidence is to the contrary.

Also published on Medium.

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