Still My Mother

Today is my mother's birthday. 


Dorothy, or Dot, would've been eighty-five. I'm not sure she would've liked being eighty-five but what do I know. I know she was very independent and would've hated being a bother to anyone. She slipped away quickly which worked out since she was brought up not to linger over goodbyes; leftovers from a military father.


I know she would say, 


I had a very beautiful life.


It'll be ten years since she walked through the door. 


Some days it feels like a month. Some days I pretend I can drive to her house in Connecticut; we'll sit and have tea and talk about books we've read. And talk about children and marriage and how there's not a whole lot we have control over. We'll eat corn on the cob and sliced tomatoes with fresh basil from Lyman's Orchard . 


I know this is magical thinking. 
Occasionally, I let myself have at it.


Mom liked to say, 


Bets, don't be afraid to be happy.


A good thing to catch yourself mumbling...don't be afraid to be happy, don't be afraid to be happy, don't be afraid...


This tiny piece from Be Generous by David Marell is a lift.


Proof That Life Goes On
My friend, Gertrude, died.
Gertrude is still my friend.


I think, my mother died. She is still my mother.


~ in memory of Dorothy Southam Jackson


       July 7, 1926 - December 19, 2001