After meditating tonight, I realized how much I’m missing the connection I used to have with my mother. I doubt she would ever remember the stories she used to tell me, like how I called an artichoke dis’ n dat (since we dipped “dis,” the artichoke, into “dat,” the melted butter she’d make.) My mother was from California, and she ate exotic food like artichokes. Now she seems exotic to me, as she moves further and further into a world I cannot understand.
While searching for a photo, I was shocked to see how much my mother, 24 in this picture, looks like my son Jack, who’s 21. I’d never noticed that before. Apparently there is still much I can learn about my mother, who was a mystery to me all her life.