When faced with very frightening situations like watching Simba’s father die in Lion King or getting a vaccination, my favorite three-year old told me that she was very brave. Bravery, like believing in Santa, often fades with time. The brave me, who squared my shoulders and marched into a dark room all by myself has lost the gumption I had in childhood. Most of the time, it doesn’t matter, but when I failed to defend the ideals and compassion of my country, it left me ashamed.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.