To Mary

Dear Mama,

Today is the fourth anniversary of your death. It was a different life for me--almost a world away--and just yesterday.

This weekend at the grand opening party, I thought of you so often. You loved art and music and serving people food. Cousin Butch and his wife Susan were at the party, and they talked about you quite a bit--Butch told me about a coat you bought him fifteen or twenty years ago that he still wears. It was a thrift store treasure, and he loves it. And Susan talked about your cooking and your serving them meals back when Butch was still in law school. They both loved you.

Some people at the party made a fuss over the food I put out--how nice it looked, how good it was. It was all very simple stuff. I kept thinking that you would have done it better. But I was proud. It is one of the ways I like to think that I am like you.

And I am like you. Like you, I love to cook for other people, I love a good laugh, I love to read. Like you, I'll start singing at the drop of a hat, and I can rarely stop until I've sung the whole song. Like you, I love animals, and I talk and sing to them on a regular basis. I love a good bargain, I love to give "the perfect gift," and I love art, poetry, and music. I love. I am a passionate woman.

Like you, I struggle with depression. I am quick to anger. I can misinterpret the most innocent statements or actions. I isolate myself. I am not always easy to live with.

I have not "turned into" you, as we so often joke about our mothers, but I cannot miss seeing you in some elements of my personality.

I miss you so, Mama.

k