Mom

Hard to believe Mom has been gone 12 years today. Do I miss her? Of course. Does it get easier? Yes . . . and that's the hard part. I'd like missing her to be LESS easy, as I feel I'm betraying the memory.

I'm not prolix as a writer (OK, I do rant when I've got the stick), so I'll just say that, Mom, I still miss you and always will.

Mom's glass

It's not much of a glass, really. The shape? A truncated cone. A bit more tapered than a rocks glass. It once had gold lettering that said 1st A. Mom worked for First American and this was a gift from them to her, and then from her to me. The gold lettering rapidly wore off, but that's the mark of anything cherished. You wear it, you use it, and you eventually wear away all of its distinctive marks. But, to me, it was Mom's glass.

I thought that eleven years down the road Mom's things would somehow lose meaning, but they are as vivid to me as ever. I'll already miss that glass—a dishwasher mishap—and realize that there's an answer to the question I've long pondered. When do you finally stop missing someone? The answer: Never.

Silver

I realized this afternoon that today would have been my 25th wedding anniversary. That I realized only this afternoon is telling. My parents, for example, marked the event with a party (a surprise, actually, organized by my brother and sister; I was already in Italy and had to miss it). And I imagine that's what most people wish for: the silver anniversary.

I can't say I miss celebrating the anniversary, really, but I do miss the concept: a quarter of a century with someone, day after day. For the time being, I'm celebrating the months with someone I love profoundly. Whether we'll be lucky enough to celebrate our silver is a story still unfolding, but we've already had 25 nights, 25 fortnights, 25 weeks.

To you, my love.

Missing the child

It’s the little things. Her socks, mismatched, left by the bed. The stick of deodorant sitting on the desk. The fish tank she wants me to mind. (I mind it, but don’t mind, really.)

Her leaving was an exciting event for both of us: for her an adventure, for me an inevitable rite of passage. But after her departure, well, that’s when I began to notice those things and their missing owner: the socks, the deodorant, the handbag I thought she’d taken with her. (“Honey, do you want me to sent that?”)

I try to imagine her place, her life, her elsewhere. Amsterdam is a wonderful place to be. But “back home” misses her.

Springtime

It surprises me every year. Spring, that is. I like looking out my kitchen window, at The Tree, every evening at around 6 o’clock. I’m fairly sure I’ve been keeping track of time, but then suddenly I realize that the crepuscular light I love seems different. I look up at the clock: 6:45. The Tree was set in darkness at 4:45 just a month ago. No, surely that’s impossible. Yet the telltale signs are there: My azaleas are budding; my tulips have pushed through their woodchips (living in an apartment, I have to grow them in pots); the boiler doesn’t turn on as often. But it’s the time of twilight that always takes me by surprise. Am I happy about this? I’m not quite sure.

Hello all

This is my first venture with a blog, inspired by friend and colleague Jennifer Baker. I won't post much, and I won't post often. But it's nice to know that I can.