It has been nearly 8 months since my mother passed away. Don’t worry. This won’t be a sad or depressing conversation between us, a couple of virtual best friends. If anything, I plan on bringing a smile to your face today. Sure, it may be laced with regret or fraught with the realization of life’s tendency to cut deeply while flying by at frightening speed. I hope, when we’re finished talking, you’ll call your mom, if you’re fortunate enough to still have one. If not, know that there is safety and comfort in our numbers, we who are motherless, fatherless, or both. Perhaps you will look through old photographs or watch a home movie or two. Maybe you’ll sniff back a few tears and call your adult children to say, “Humor me. I just wanted to hear your voice. Trust me, you should commit mine to memory, too. One day, you’ll be glad I told you to do this.” I am unsure of my big feelings today. Are they so close to the surface of my heart because we have all thrown caution to the wind? As of late, we seem to be screaming powerful F bombs at the viruses and the poxes and the heat. We have taken to the streets again, armed with weapons of loneliness and the need to replenish all the hugs we missed out on for so long. It has been good to see people. Along the way, so many of you have shared a Marsha story with me. They all have things in common, these tall tales of my mother. They are spicy. They are generally hilarious. They are so Marsha. Just last week, I ran into an old friend of my late daughter. We parted with hugs, promises to stay in touch, and one question from her to me. “Remember the time your mom made that sign?” Oh, Lordy. I had forgotten about the sign. Grab a cup of coffee. If you were here, I’d offer you some homemade banana bread. See, there’s no rushing a really good story. And, this is one you don’t want to miss.
