Lyn and I have been walking buddies for decades. In near-frozen sleet or sweltering heat, we set our alarms for 6AM and meet on the sidewalk between our houses for 6000 steps and a chance to empty our hearts. Over the years, we have given our walk-talks a rather uninviting name—vomiting. At our opening step towards the southern end of Long Island, the one of us in most need to unpack her woes says, “I’m vomiting first,” and begins her story. The other listens; (listening by the female definition is softly agreeing and/or giving stern advice.) The vomitor gets her say all the way to the county line or as we call it, “Ji-Soo’s block.” But at the turn north towards home, the other gets to vomit her woes.Read More
One More Thing Before I Go
Last spring when the scent of lilacs followed me from the backyard into my kitchen, I thought of my mother’s distant cousin and her daughters, who, like my lilacs, visited yearly when the earth warmed and the days grew longer. I pictured us all in idyllic memories of jump rope games and playing with dolls. But, except for MaryAnn, the littlest daughter, I could not remember their names.
A few years ago, I could have called my mother. She would have teased me for my forgetfulness, asked what I was making for dinner (there was never a phone conversation where we didn’t talk about food) and repeated her mother-to-daughter mantra, “When are you coming over?” We would have shared stories of those long-ago days before hanging-up and re-joining our lives. But my mother has passed on and while the images of our family lingers-the details are lost. I write One more thing before I go, my living record for my son, in hope that one day, when he has a question I can no longer answer, it can be found in this blog.