In five more years, my dad will have been gone from this world for as many years as he lived in it. Born long before selfies and snapchat, his fading photos are the only survivors of his short life. If there’s an audio of his sonorous voice, I haven’t located it. If a picture of me on his lap has lasted, it exists somewhere I haven’t searched. These sad statistics don’t lead me to forget him, but rather idolize him. Each year, he grows taller and stronger, handsomer, more charming, and braver in my mind.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.