It’s been four years that my mother died, but seems like just yesterday, or a hundred years ago. At least when I think of it now it isn’t with dread or heartache; I miss her so much, but the good stuff has slowly filtered to the top and I’m able to concentrate on the really hilarious times we had together. Here’s a repost of the story I wrote after she died. I don’t feel quite so guilty any longer, but the regret is as fresh as if it had just happened.
The cover is of an essay collection I published myself on Amazon years ago but it is no longer available. I might offer it here someday.