Periodically I get the box down out of the closet and sort through it all again. Her journals stand like silent sentinels on the bookshelf, waiting for me to glean and garner a pithy saying, an insight, an occasional epiphany - in between what she had made for dinner, how much rain fell, who they played cards with.
The other day a friend of mine sent me a card that mom had sent her four years ago. What a surprise to open the envelope unaware that mom's familiar flowing handwriting would be the first thing I saw. It gave my heart a start.
How do I honor her memory best? How do I care for these pieces she left behind? When will I be able to touch what she touched without tears?
