Today is Mom’s birthday. She would have been 74.
Yesterday I was sorting stacks of Georgia’s drawings and cards from the very beginning, settling on a new round of keepers, and I found some letters Mom sent in her last year.
We received Karen’s letter today, so I thought I would send a quick reply.
She was a letter writer, a dutiful letter writer. She did this with the diligence of stenography, the now archaic art, which was one of her perfected disciplines. She documented things unarguably well.
Dad and I went out and ate Mexican food on Wednesday night.
Sometimes my sisters and I giggled about the chronography of her letters: the litany of meals and miles, temperatures and rainfalls.
On Thursday, the 11th, I have another chemotherapy. I can expect aftereffects.
She did not adorn; she did not dwell. She did not linger over the things that can never be expressed.
I include some pictures.
They were snapshots of the baby shower her friends had hosted after Georgia’s birth, a treat to sweeten her numbered days.
They aren’t very clear. I thought I would include them so you can share the experience with me.
Oh how I do. How I still do!
She remains my first and last teacher. Everything she never said grows clearer all the time.