My mom was always my hero. She is everything to me. My mom and I would do everything together. I idolized my older sister, who was out of the house before I was a teenager, but my mom is, well… that's my mama. She helped me through a number of anxiety-ridden moments: I remember the moment when I realized my anxiety was real. I was in First Grade. We were given a color-by-number assignment page. The way my brain saw it was to ignore the numbers (and clearly the directions). All I could see in front of me was a pretty picture for me to color however I wanted. I looked around the classroom and noticed that everyone's assignment was the same. I looked down at my own and started questioning my creativity and the differences between my coloring and theirs. Why was I so different? The “forbidden” color-by-number remained in the very back of my messy desk, looking like abstract origami. I felt like a freak, but why? Turns out, I was just flexing my creative muscles. I got my creativity from my mom and, through her, I eventually learned to build on it. At an early age, she would introduce me to art and books. We would walk to the public library together and sit there for hours and read. Now that I'm writing this all out, I'm realizing that it was probably just as nice for her as it was for me. She could quietly read in the atrium lounge where the only sound made was the buzzing from the lights and an occasional book page fluttering. When I was a pre-teen, Mom started working at a clothing alterations shop where she eventually became part owner. I was so proud of her when she worked there. She invited me to help out some days after school and taught me everything she knew about hemming (it's terrible), embroidery (cool!), jackets (hard to deal with), and little odds and ends that we could make together. She even helped me with design work when I applied to go to the Fashion Institute of Technology (big dreams, yes). My mother suffered from Alpha-1 Antitrypsin Deficiency, a rare, inherited disorder that can cause lung and liver disease. When Covid-19 hit in March of 2020, she was all I could think about. At that point, she was on constant oxygen. But my mom was ever so vigilant when it came to her health and was sure to wear masks, stayed in her assisted living apartment room, and asked for help if she needed it. By April, things had taken a turn for the worse and no one could find any masks to wear. I do what I normally do in stressful, anxiety-ridden situations: I was normal. Stressful situations where a large group of people are involved tend to make me less anxious - everyone is worrying enough for all of us! I got out my trusty Singer sewing machine that my mom gave to me and started sewing my own masks with a pattern I found online. I was being resourceful as Mom taught me. My mom and I talked on the phone a lot more while we sewed; she started making masks as well. She made them for nurses and friends and her church. She even started making more hot bowl holders (hot pads for bowls!) that she used to make all the time. Nothing could keep this woman down. I was tiring out from making tons of masks but here she was, steadily going at it. I knew then that I wanted to be just like her. I wanted to sew her patterns, cook her recipes, and do her Jane Fonda videos. Just like Mom. I mean, how could someone with breathing problems be almost healthy (for her) during this pandemic? She is typically in and out of the hospital all the time. I couldn't wrap my head around it. Her faith stood strong in the face of anything. Who wouldn't want to be her? February 3, 2021, 4:51 PM Voicemail from Mom: “Oh, hi, baby girl. This is Mama. I'm doing well and I miss talking to you, so give me a call and we'll chat.” April 20, 2021 Voicemail from Mom: “Hi, Honey. Call me back when you want to visit. Sorry I didn't get back to you, but call the hospital phone.” Mom was back in the hospital. It was not Covid related, but her lungs and heart were failing her. My mom has fought many battles; we weren't so sure this was one she would fight through. She had told me that she was ready. It didn't make the pain any easier to deal with. My mama, Dorothy Jean Berg, died on April 26, 2021. She lived a long life of happy memories and had a strong will to survive. In the end, she died a happy woman with a full, completed life. She was the queen in life's game of chess. As 2022 arrives, I am thinking about how I want to live my life like her. I want to be better and do better and create happiness around me. We all should want to create a world worth living in and worth making beautiful. By turning our anxieties and fears into tangible art and expression, we can conquer anything. I am now surrounded by many hot bowl holders, masks, and photos of her beautiful, smiling face.

How do you mentally prepare for the imminent possibility of your mother's death? How selfish am I to even be consumed with this question? So many people live, find happiness and thrive despite having lost a parent or more. Some much younger than I am now who had a much harder time even understanding the loss they mourn. My mother was one of those. She was a baby only about 10 months old when her father died. She didn't even get to really know him and remember him. Have smells tied to memories of him. Have places, things and people tied to memories of him. In a way that may have made it easier for her. Yet it also gave her a void that could never be filled. It didn't help that her own mother was so caught up in grief that she never shared stories or spoke much of her father. I honestly don't know how to be on this earth without her here. I didn't think I'd have to be worrying about this inevitability for many years to come. Thought I'd be stronger and more prepared for it by then. Ha! As if that's even possible. She was the first person to love me. My first friend. Best friend once I was an adult. She taught me how to cook and bake. She nurtured my creativity and tried not to get too bored or annoyed with my analytical side. She went to every game, concert, play, you name it, that I was in. She was there, in the audience, supporting me, cheering me on. She is always honest with me, even if it hurts. She lets me make my mistakes and won't say “I told you so”. She stands up for me when no one else will. She is my safe place to land. Don't get me wrong as much as we have a loving relationship, she can drive me nuts too. We've both had our “I'm through with you moments”. Only for a couple hours or a day or so later to make up. No matter how bad it got or how much it seemed like we couldn't overcome, we did. That's what love does I suppose. I even told her the other day; I'd rather be in a fight with her right now than have her in the hospital because at least I know how our fight will ultimately end. I know my mother is a fighter. She's fought death more times than I can count. In fact, she wasn't supposed to live past the age of 2 because of a congenital heart defect. Every time she comes into the ER, they think she's not going to make it (to be fair she has flatlined several times before) yet she pulls through. If you're going to bet money on a long shot that has a good chance of coming through, it would be her. I just worry, when does that resolve give out? When does she hit her 9th life? All I know how to do is hope and pray. Try to keep my spirits up around her (thank you drama class) so she might believe and fight that much harder. I hate feeling helpless and fearful but perhaps that is my lesson. Not sure I'm in the mood to learn. I guess we never really are for those things though. As my great grandmother would say I'm going to “hope for the best but prepare for the worst.” Still don't know how to fully prepare though, if that's even possible. Update: This was written 16 days before my mom eventually succumbed to her health issues last October. Those 16 days were a roller coaster of good days, where we believed she was on the mend and making progress, proving all the doctors wrong (as usual), and then the horrible days like the one where we had that heart wrenching conversation with the palliative care doctor. I've not been able to overcome the grief of her death. So, I'm sorry I can't relay any lesson I've learned. All I know is every day when I wake up and remember she's gone my heart sinks and my eyes water. I still don't know how to be in this world without her. How can I, when she took such a huge piece of my heart with her when she left?

I ll never forget the face of that woman. She was sitting at an ideal place, at the fish tavern with her partner. She was enjoying a good fish platter with her husband or partner. She was next to the sea, she had the luck to enjoy the sea breeze and sun in a beautiful island. But did she look happy? Was she happy? You can guess the answer... And the answer is no, she looked deeply miserable. And unhappy. Miserable and unhappy together can be a deadly combination. You wander. Why people have sometimes everything they have asked for but still do not enjoy it? Why do we make life complicated? Why can't we live in the moment? Someone said that if you are too anxious about the future you are not present. You don't live the moment. Is it so hard to achieve that ? I' ll never forget the face of that woman who just gave me a day lesson. "Remember to smile. You never know who will fall in love with your smile".

Wait for the End! I'm sorry, Momo, it reads on the back of the faded postcard he holds. It's not safe here. Go home. I'll catch you later. There's no signature, not that Momo needs one. Not when he can find that familiar lopsided scrawl etched onto the left side of his soul. Not when he already knows he's late. I'm sorry, Momo. It isn't the first time he's been left behind to deal with the aftermath of those words. They replay over and over in his mind, like a song that's stuck in his head, one that he accidentally learned all the lyrics to. It's not safe here. He wants to unlearn these words. In a moment of flickering frustration, Momo rips up the postcard into quarters and lets them go into the clutches of the wind. He watches as the pieces of ‘Greetings from Kil-where!' flutter away until they become only dark spots against the red sky. He wishes the Drift could let go of Colin that easily. (“There's no sun in Kil-where,” Colin had once told him. They had been lying on the back deck at their house in Anchorage, watching as the day slowly faded into night. It'd been the summer before high school before Colin's already-sharp edges pierced the sky. “No moon there, either. Completely uninhibited.” “Must be pretty lonely there,” Momo had muttered sleepily, barely keeping his eyes open. “It is. It really is, Momo.”) Go home. The purple sands of Kil-where shift beneath Momo. He crumples to the desert ground and does another count of the number of times he's let himself get caught in this moment between two trapezes. Catch you later. Six times. That's how many times Colin's promised to catch Momo, and how many times he's pulled his hand away from him at the very last moment. Six different worlds. Six different skies. Six different failures. He's never seen a sky this red before; at least that's new to him. Momo lies down in the surprisingly cool sand and lets his own tears of anger fall. He stares up at the empty red sky of Kil-where and waits for this world to end, too. ☉ “I'm sorry, Momo.” It's not the first time Colin's speaking these words, and it won't be the last. It's the night before Colin leaves for those six different skies. They're both eighteen-years-old, and Colin's leaned up against the kitchen sink, looking like the kind of boy people write tragedies about. His shaved head matches the light of the moon peeking through the windows, and his nose is broken in three places now instead of two. It's the first time Momo's seen him all day, and the rumor of the fight at school finally comes full circle. “Just...don't go. Please.” These words mark Momo as another character in a tragedy, too. Just a different kind. Colin smiles sadly, but he doesn't take Momo's hand. “I'll catch you later, Momo.” The Drift reaches for him and doesn't let go. Momo reaches for him, too, and misses. ☉ Question: What is the Drift? a) a dance move that originated from the 1980s. You know, the one with the leg and the hip thrust. Yeah, that one. b) a secret plane of existence in the universe that selects people without rhyme or reason, thus giving them the ability to travel between worlds and different dimensions. c) a horrible, horrible thing that needs to learn how to let go. d) all of the above. ☉ The first time Momo meets Colin, he tries to evict him from their house. “He shouldn't be wearing my clothes,” he's trying to explain to his mothers, Rosalie and Manon. Colin sits out of earshot at the kitchen table, scarfing down lasagna like he hasn't eaten in three months, which, knowing the Drift, is probably true. “I don't care if he's from the Drift. He should get his own clothes.” It's basic ten-year-old logic. He should have known better; Rosalie's from the Drift, too, and Manon has a soft spot for wandering souls. Colin doesn't know anymore better than Momo. His mothers think he's ten-years-old, too, like Momo, but unlike Momo, he smiles too much and he looks as if he's made out of the sharp pieces of glass you find in an alleyway that you could cut yourself with if you aren't careful. He's too easily impressed by the microwave; he doesn't even know who Spider-Man is, which, to Momo, is more than enough of a reason to not trust him. He doesn't know about the Drift, either, even though it's the closest thing he's ever had to a home. Then again, not a lot of people do. (He later learns the reason behind Colin's sharpness; the Drift hadn't been kind to him, and in turn, he'd somehow misplaced the coordinates that would have shown him how to be a normal boy, a boy who hadn't been chosen by the Drift. He lost that part of himself among the stars and the moons, and the Drift never gave it back to him). “The Drift.” The words fall from Colin's lips like yellow ribbons as he sits at their kitchen table, wearing a dazed expression and Momo's clothes that don't fit him right; Momo's wearing his pajamas and a seething glare sent towards the direction of Colin.

Good Day, Wow wee has time just flown by. This summer I spent my time re-writing my manuscript for the editors. My book Viktor, Into the Light will be out sometime in the summer of 2020 and I am delighted to share this exciting moment in my life with you. I am just thrilled that my dream is on the precipice of coming true! Publishing one of my books and having it made into a real book is so exciting for me.I have waited 40 years for this moment in my life and now it is finally happening for me! This is just wonderful! The whole experience of writing Viktor has been quite magical and inspirational. Since 2014 I have written 5 books, with Viktor being my first for publication. I hope you all have something exciting going on in your lives that just brings you pure joy! Have a wonderful time dancing through life. Look for my book; it will make a great gift for someone you love. Thank you for your time! God Bless, Julie Ann

(This article may be triggering: caution) Nothing hurts more than a lost parent who is still physically here. In my eyes either feared or loved. I hated you but loved the idea of you. You were abusive and a helpless narcisisst. I never understood as a child how much pain you really brought until the flashbacks kicked in. Suicide attempts leaked in my mind at the age of 6. As a kid, i wanted to believe the person you were when you built me forts was who you truly were. That's the part of you that you lost, it was barely there when i was a kid, and as i grew, it faded more and more. It faded until it drifted into an abyss. It's going further and further deeper into the abyss. Mom, me and my brothers left you, I am sorry, but I wish you were sorry you led us to that. I could'nt bring myself to contact you in any way for years. Finally one day I wrote you a letter saying if you would get help i would want to see you again. I said you could only make me happy if you were happy. I know you have a troubled past, though the pain hurt, I didn't want you to feel that hurt. You refused and justified your actions, blaming me or saying my mother intoxicated my brain. Where did you go? I need the real you back, throw a rope into the abyss and save yourself please.. before its too late. I love you and need you on earth to get better. I need you back. You refused. I tried to text you again. Same thing, wanting you to apoligize of at least get help. Refused.. again. I miss you. I miss the idea of a father. Not a father figure, a father, my father. You are lost, and you dont want to save yourself. Having a father with no empathy, sympathy, nothing.. but narcissism. Please, Dad, Come back to yourself and see me again. I need you, the real you back.

She was beautiful with her long, gently curled, brown hair hanging down softly just below her shoulders. Yet, her pale blue eyes always seemed to hold a hint of sadness and fatigue. I remember the few times when I peeked in her room and found her crying. As a child, I never understood why. Her hair, cut a bit shorter, reached just below her delicate earlobes. She still wore no jewelry but for the wedding band she received from her husband, my father, so many years ago. Some of the sadness has gone and her eyes seem a bit more alive than in years past. As a teen, I never understood why, nor did I care. She wore her hair in a shorter crop, just midway down her ears and it had begun to turn gray at the temples. In addition to her wedding band, she wore a small locket around her neck – another gift from her beloved husband for their 25th wedding anniversary. At times she seemed happy but beneath that glimmer, if you looked closely, you saw the unmistakable hint of wear, worry and fatigue. I didn't understand as I was a fairly new wife and mother, I was too busy to notice. Her hair now has turned white and she wears it as short as possible. Her pale blue eyes emit more sadness than imaginable. So sad. Such a faraway stare. No longer able to see, but for the memories in her mind. Her jewelry, throughout the years has never changed but with one exception, one new addition – a larger gold band that she wore on the middle finger of her left hand – right next to her own. As an adult, I understand. I finally understand!

I find myself losing patience Whenever I hear the phone ring Mom's voice is on the other end. But, it's always the same old thing. “Hello, dear, I'm just checking in; Wanted to make sure you're ok.” More than once, I'm tempted to scream: “Mom, I'm the same as I was yesterday!” I'm not as young as I used to be Where patience was there to spare. And too, Mom is older, she needs to hear That her daughter will always still care. I answer her many questions That she's asked many times before, I hold the phone tightly and fight back a tear And tell her I love her much more. I knew a day would come to pass When Mom would awaken no more; Each day, I saw she grew weaker, I knew she was near Heaven's door. The day arrived with an angel Who took hold of my mom's hand, Eased her soul from her body And took her to God's precious land. Mom's now with dad up in Heaven And the angels rejoice and sing. Yet, my heart is broken for I never again Will lose patience when I hear the phone ring.

I don't think I ever felt so strong while feeling so incredibly vulnerable. I tried to hold back the tears behind a forced smile. I couldn't allow myself to break down. I had to be strong for him. He needed me. They needed me. I needed to be their rock. Being away from my oldest son tore at my heart, but I knew I was where I needed to be. I knew he was safe with my parents. Seeing my youngest in an incubator cage hooked up to wires and tubes made me sick. I did everything I could to keep him safe. I was supposed to provide him with a warm and safe place to grow without worries for 9 months, but my body wouldn't let me. My body failed me and it almost failed him. I honestly try not to think about it. Whenever I picture it, I get nauseous and start to cry. It took me days before I could really talk about it. The pain. The blood. The lights. Watching the nurses rush to prep themselves and me for surgery. Being strapped down. Doctors and nurses calling out directions in loud and rushed tones. The pain. Wishing they would just put me under. Wishing it was over. Then came the reassurance from a nurse's comforting hand and I was out. The pain was gone. Or, at least I thought it was. Suddenly, I felt everything again. The cold table underneath me. The straps on my arms and legs. The doctor pushing on my stomach. The gas mask against my face. I could hear those rushed conversations and the beeping of the alarms. I could hear and feel everything but I couldn't move. I couldn't talk. They were about to cut me open and I could feel everything and I couldn't let them know. I was told I stayed pretty calm as I told the nurse it was time. I don't remember calm. I remember panic and pain. I could see the fear in my husband's eyes. The worry that he may never see his wife again or meet his son. I could hear the hesitation in his voice when he was clarifying my wish of “baby comes first. If it comes down to it, save the baby first.” I said this during our first pregnancy as well, and he agreed, but being in the situation where he might actually need to make that decision was a different story, one he was having a difficult time wrapping his head around. He tried to stay calm and not let me see him worry. He went through the checklist. “You want to be cremated, right?” “Yes, and the baby comes first.” “And allow family and friends to say goodbye first?” “Yes, and the baby comes first.” “And then planted with a tree?” “Yes, and Milo comes first.” He looked at me in a way I could never put words to. It was as if by agreeing to my request out loud he was damning me to death, that he was closing the book to my life himself. He eyes screamed while his voice calmly agreed, “and Milo comes first.” His green eyes sparkling from the tears he was trying to hold back. Swollen and red around the edges. Stinging. With a sudden jerk, I hear the words “here we go” as the nurses roll my bed out of the room. He walked with me until he was told he couldn't go any further and our hands pulled apart as I was wheeled in for surgery. The meds had seemed to be helping but part of me knew it wouldn't last. “What if as soon as these meds are done, it starts again?” The nurse reassured me that shouldn't be the case, but it was. Within a few hours after that last drop of magnesium, the pain started again in full force. Then came the blood. A lot of blood. The nurses seemed to stay calm, at least in front of us. But I knew. I knew there was no stopping it. I knew it was time. I needed to call my mom.

My motherly experience I'm an addict, there's no doubt about that. But, I'm not a bad mother; I swear. As I sit in fetal position on the floor with a wailing toddler next to me I think, “am I dying?”. That's the last thing I remember. I awaken to the noise of glass shattering all over my kitchen floor. I stumble out of the bathroom of my small studio apartment to see my half sister starring at me with eyes of vexation. If I wasn't dead I'm sure as hell dead now. “Why weren't you answering your phone?!” Gabby yells through the other side of the now empty window hinges. “What are you talking about?” I questioned, my voice scratchy as if I've been smoking cigarettes back to back. Or maybe I have been.. The last thing I recall is walking over to Dandfords; my local bar that's 10 minutes walking distance. Dandfords graciously pleases me with a good morning when I wake up everyday. I remember meeting up with Mandi and a couple of her girlfriends and yes, of course I was with the baby. I wasn't going to leave him at home alone; what kind of mother would I be? I had a couple drinks. Ok, maybe I had one too many drinks. And well, I went home. Apparently a lot of mishaps went down when I arrived. I miss out on my life constantly because of my addiction. Half of my life is a blank sheet of paper. You know when you print a document and you run out of ink? The document comes out blank? Well that's my life summed up in one. My arrival was followed by a phone call to my half sister Susan. I killed the conversation by her interpreting my words as “goodbye I'm going to kill myself and the baby”. So, for the past thirty minutes, Gabby has been banging on my door with no response. Police were notified and neighbors were petrified by the news. It was a whole commotion. While I was just passed out drunk on my cold tiled bathroom floor. It could be worse.. I take it back, that was the worse day of my motherly experience. Two years and a magic pill later, I'm in recovery. I'm an event photographer, a mommy blogger, and a super hero to my three year old. I'm also a daughter, a sister, and a wife who has some issues to resolve. I'm still in a quandary over what to do with my life. All in all, I'm only twenty-three. I don't know what lies underneath the ocean. I don't know if the boogie man exist. And I don't know if Pluto is really a planet. But, I do know I am a great mother.

Every few weeks, many of my friends and I get together for lunch. It's been a habit of ours for several years. When my mom moved in with us, I decided to include her in these activities. Mom soon became a favorite member of our group and the women looked forward to hearing her tales of things past, her times in America when she was little and emigrated with her mother from England, but mostly, the antics of her middle child – me! My friends vied for the opportunity to sit next to mom and encourage her speak her memories. Mom always obliged. Knowing mom was nearly blind due to severe age-related macular degeneration, our lunch group made sure mom received all the care and attention she needed. One luncheon started during a beautiful, sunny morning. We met at the restaurant just around 11:30am. However, by the time we were getting ready to leave, the heavens opened, and a torrent of rain was pouring down. We debated trying to make a run for our cars or waiting out the quick-moving Florida rain. Looking at mom, we took into consideration since she was wheelchair bound racing her through the rain wasn't something advisable. The decision was made. We'd stay a bit longer and order dessert, something we dieters rarely do. That day, we'd make an exception. As we looked at the dessert menus, I asked mom what she'd like. Without hesitation, she said, “I'd love a big piece of Strawberry Shortcake!” When the waitress arrived to take our latest orders, I asked for the strawberry shortcake but with two forks.” I had to at pretend to watch my calories! Our orders started arriving at our table and everyone oohed and aahed at each plate. The waitress placed the strawberry shortcake in front of mom. She squinted at it trying desperately to see it and then asked what it was. “Mom, it's the strawberry shortcake you said you wanted” Mom looked perplexed and in a loud voice said, “Why on earth did you listen to me? I was only joking. I don't even like strawberry shortcake!” I ordered a slice of apple pie for mom and I ate the strawberry shortcake. But despite the extra and unneeded calorie intake, we all had a great time and hearty laugh at mom's sense of humor. Yes, mom ate all her apple pie and asked if we could make one once we arrived home. “Mom, you are joking, right?” I really had no idea. Then, in front of the entire group of women added another of her zingers: “Of, course I am” she said, “Everyone knows you can't bake applies pies! You always manage to mess them up. We'll just stop at the supermarket and pick one up for later.” Now, all these years later, whenever I see a piece of strawberry shortcake, it reminds me of mom and the day she ordered hers.

I am on the other side of 35 now and the mother of three awesome children. My son is an amazing person. He is a non-conformist and at times very caring and at other times, he's your stereotypical teenager. He is an artist at heart and I love him fiercely. He is strangely thoughtful and has been this way. At 6 or 7 years old, he surprised me with the questions, “what is love?” and “where does love come from?” Once, right in the middle of his homework assignment he said “Mommy, it must have been hard for you”. Not knowing what he was talking about I said “what are you talking about?” He said “Your mother dying when you were young”. He was wrong. While I am sure my childhood was different than the average person's since you weren't around, I never really dealt with your absence at that age; I began to process it when I was an adult. As a child your death was never something the family spoke about. We just went on living. We moved in with daddy and kept the play button of life on. I went to school, did what was required of me and moved on…until the teenage years. Daddy was a different kind of parent than you were: he favored the strict dad approach and I was very limited in the places I could go. As a result I did a little sneaking around and did some things I probably shouldn't have. But there is nothing I can do about that now. I didn't think I was worse than the average teenager at the time but I certainly wasn't the best. I only had a couple of close friends at the time and I don't know if that was a good or bad thing since she wasn't really the most sympathetic or sensitive person. But she's who I had, and I am grateful for her. Daddy got married to a woman I admire and love very much. She is one of the kindest people I know. She was definitely the motherly type but different than you, which is probably a good thing you know? If she seemed like she was a replacement for you maybe we wouldn't have gotten along. She was a worrier, always worried about other folks having what they need and often neglecting herself. I can't recall one bad experience with her. You were a different kind of mother; I like to think I somewhat take after both of you, you know? You were a creative, a poet who loved music and danced with me and sis all the time. I remember spending nights by granny listening to ‘Lady in Red' on my Walkman, smelling freshly baked bread in her oven. Those were much simpler times. It's been a bit more complicated in my adult life. I miss you most now because I am struggling with being a grown-up. Somehow, I feel like I don't understand what it means to be a woman because you were not here to teach me the rules. I don't know how to balance being a mom and a wife. Heck, I don't even think I am doing the being a mom thing right, and now that I have a teenage step-daughter and my 4 year old, I feel like I may not be preparing them for life as a woman. Sometimes I think that not knowing was an advantage for me but at other times I feel like life would've been easier if I would just follow the rules and conform. Would I want to teach my kids to conform to societal rules? Probably not, but I do think life would be easier if I could find that sweet spot between conforming and doing my own thing…I believe that is where life becomes easier to navigate. Either way, I suck at the balancing act of working full time, (full time and half actually) and being a mother. Not just a mother but a loving mommy that has the energy to play with the kids and clean and cook wholesome foods and not feel like I'm losing my mind doing that and forsaking my own desires to be who I truly am (which is not always kid friendly). I do not believe I am defined by this thing called being a mother and feel profoundly selfish for even having the thought of being something besides that. Realistically, I know you were more than a mother, but I suppose that is all I saw, and you seemed happy that way. Why do I struggle with that? I am most bothered by not being able to ask you for advice. It sucks that I can't sit with you as an adult and have a conversation with you, something I enjoy doing with daddy and my step-mother. It disturbs me that you will never hold any of your grandchildren and they will never know what you smell like (I still remember after all of these years). They will never know the awesome person you are, and they will never truly understand why I am so bummed out every mother's day and every August 28th (yes, I still remember your birthday). I'm not ready to leave my kids, but I am sure looking forward to seeing you again. I just want to talk to you. Take care of yourself. I hope you read this letter. With love, Your daughter.

The smoke burned my nose and eyes as I sat barefoot on the small alleyway behind our house. I was shaking, my small hands clenched together in fear as my mother stared at me, eyes filled with a concoction of emotions. She sat with her back up against the front of the red minivan as she started on another cigarette. As she flicked away the glowing embers, I noticed her hands were also trembling. I think about moments before. My mother had burst into my bedroom, I witnessed a side of her I had never seen before she began screeching about how she didn't want me anymore. How much trouble I had caused her and that she was bringing me back to my father's house. To cast me from her life forever. I could feel my heart crumbling in upon itself and before I realized what was happening I flew down the stairs and out the door. I had no inkling about where I was going, especially without any shoes. Yet, I raced down the block, my phone in hand poised to call anyone that could be of aid, my heart was pounding and my face streaked with tears. Around the corner, I saw mother whisking the minivan down the street approaching me. I panicked hoping for the opportunity to flee or hide. I did neither. Instead, stood frozen in the middle of some stranger's yard. She took the corner hard and I heard the distinct screech of the tires as Mom stopped the van next to the curb getting out of the car. She rushed towards me in a flurry of hatred, gripping my arms, pulling me towards the van violently. My body was racked with sobs as I mustered the strength to try and resist her grip when she finally pushed me into the car, I could do nothing but wail in the back seat. We drove off, stopping in the parking lot of a run down drug store. My mind was ablaze with the understanding that my own mother wanted to be rid of me, relinquishing me to my father, never to see my siblings again. My mother doesn't want me and that she might have finally lost it. My mother doesn't want me. My mother doesn't want me. It played over and over again and soon I began to say these words aloud. Could she really discard of me easily? Had our relationship had always been shallow, strictly on the surface? What I did know was the there was no going back to a normal "mother and daughter" relationship. Maybe a new barrier that could never be broken down. Coming back from the store, I was jerked from my thoughts when mom opened up the car door and a new package of cigarettes. Lighting her cancer stick she sat, dragging in her calming poison and I began to scream. Telling her that if she left me I would never want to come back, but she remained silent. I never stopped crying for a second to tell her how terrified I actually was. The panic that she was going to bring me back to my father's house. To the place where I would have to explain why I had no shoes, why I couldn't stop blubbering, why I would never see my mother again. For several minutes we sat there in the weed-infested parking lot. Her cigarette smoke was beginning to infecting the air outside of the van. And without even so much as a glance over the shoulder at me, she began driving back towards the yellow house. I was taken aback when she turned into the driveway and put the car in park. Still shocked that she actually brought me back to the house I had no idea what to do. I got out of the van, through the still wide open door and up the stairs to my room. There I sat on the bed, my arms wrapped around my legs as I began to shiver. I rocked myself back and forth to sooth the emotions that stirred within me. Minutes passed when suddenly I heard the sounds of footsteps on the stairs. I knew it was mother, but that didn't stop me from flinches at every step she took in my direction. She told me to come outside with her, and I did. There we were. I listened to her sorry attempt to apologize, her explanation about the contents of a letter. A letter that told her of the amounts of money she had to pay to my father; a child support bill that drove her to near madness. But to me, I saw it as where my mother would rather choose money over her own child. To her, it was the thing that induced overwhelming emotion that took control and made her execute such rash actions. Could we ever go back to where we had been in our relationship? Of course, things never meant to be said, but maybe they were things that had always been thought. I said nothing but remained stationary, sitting on the ground. My feet raw from running, the dry dead grass scratching at the bottom of my thighs. Attempting to understand her position and reasoning. After she stopped she asked me: “Could you ever forgive me?” my mother voice shook violently on the verge of tears. My eyes were dry, my body drained, my soul empty. I embraced her and said nothing, worrying whether or not the end of the cigarette in her hand was going to burn me.

My dad stood in the kitchen as he watched Mom concentrating on the refrigerator door. “Mary,” he said quietly, “If you put one more magnet on that refrigerator, the door will be so heavy, it'll fall off!” Mary said, “Guess I do have quite a collection, don't I?” “Frank”. Do you remember when I bought this one?” As he stepped forward to have a better look, Mom pulled it small magnet off the refrigerator and handed it to him. It looked like a miniature egg beater. “I bought this right after Margaret was married. Remember?” She took it from him and sighing deeply continued, “We visited her new home and stopped for gasoline on the way. I saw this and decided it would make the perfect piece of memorabilia. We were so proud of her. Young, pretty, smart, a good husband and a new home!” Dad stood mesmerized as he recalled that trip. “Maryland” came from the first time they visited my younger sister after she moved down south with her new husband. “Montauk” brought back the memories of their first vacation alone after their children married and moved away. She never removed the next one, just pointed to it. In a voice that almost sounded like a whisper, Mom said, “I'm sure this will break if I try to remove it but look. It reminds me of the day, Margaret visited and announced she was pregnant.” “Our first grandchild! What a memory! I can't begin to explain how thrilled I was. Remember, Frank?” She looked at him through misty eyes. “After Margaret and her husband left, you drove me to the store so I could buy some wool. I was so excited to begin knitting a hat with the matching sweater and carriage blanket. When I approached the cashier, I saw this cute little plastic baby bottle and knew it needed a new home – on my refrigerator!” Dad remembered and he, too sighed. “So long ago, Mary and yet, it seems like yesterday. How old is Ken now anyway? 19?” “Oh my, Frank, no!” she said as she smiled and gently and affectionately stroked his arm. “He's all grown up now, He's almost 24 and our little girl will be 45 in a few months.” Dad, in a bit of shock, grabbed the back of the nearest chair and wanted very much to sit down – yet the magnets pulled at him as if he were a piece of metal. “Go on,” he encouraged Mom while trying to pull himself together remembering that he was 45 years old when his first grandson was born. Mom remembered the reason she bought each one. For instance, the tiny telephone. It was about 2-inches high and one inch wide. It was hard molded plastic, but if you picked up the handpiece and pressed its small cradle, the device emitted a sound replicating the ringing of an old-fashioned telephone. Mom said she got that from the 5 & 10 cent store during its last days of business. The magnet held her eyes as she looked back in time. “Remember how we would walk down the avenue and I'd stop in for some material to make the clothes for the children?” He remembered. He also remembered, that it was in that store, that old five and dime, where they bought their first full set of dishes – one piece at a time! That store closed their doors for the last time back in 1968, but Mom still has her magnet. “Do you remember this one?” she asked in a brighter tone of voice as she took it off the refrigerator. It looked like a small snail shell – no marking and faded with time. Taking it from her for a stronger and closer look while trying to peek inside, Dad saw what looked like dried grass. Then he remembered. “Yes, I sure do!” he said triumphantly. It was indeed a small snail shell which brought back a flood of memories. Mom was sure his smile spread from ear to ear. “You bought it during our first family vacation at Virginia Beach. We rented a large beachfront house for a week and invited Margaret and MJ and their families. We had such fun and the grandkids loved being so close to the water.” It took a while, but one by one they recalled each memory. Years past and with each one, dad became more observant with the arrival of a new magnet - sometimes more than one. Secretly, he wrote down the occasion associated with each one so that when the memories began to fail, he'd be able to relate the reasoning behind them all. Mom and Dad are gone now but the memories linger on more than just pictures in some old photo album that eventually gets stuck up in an attic. Through her declining years, her visits to shops for magnets slowed considerably but every now and then, while out with a friend or relative, she'd find one and insist it needed a new home - hers! And no, the door never felt off mom's refrigerator, but through the years, Mom had had to rearrange the magnets to make room for more. In fact, during the course of her lifetime, she even had to begin placing some on the side of the refrigerator. While these many magnets may never carry a business logo or an easy to find phone number, they sure do tell a story- a great story that will never change with time - the story of Mom's life.

The most beautiful moments of my life are the ones nobody sees. God has called me to see the sacred in the ordinary. From ripe, round, unbearably red strawberries in a simple pottery bowl to spindly curvy palm trees arching into a perfect Hawaiian sky or speckled-belly puppies lying on their backs under a hot Georgia sun, if I choose (and I do choose) to see with my heart as well as my eyes, I get to watch the common transform into the holy. I am one girl, one woman, one daughter, one mother. I have lived this incredible lifetime of memories, choices, gains and losses. Sometimes I wish I'd accomplished more: written my bestselling book, won the Pulitzer, made more money, acquired more possessions. I wish I'd become famous for something meaningful, helped to eradicate a disease, saved a life, or invented something really, really cool. In those times, when I'm thinking that way, I feel a little foolish. What is my life about? Why was I here? And, in some cases, what was I thinking? But, God reminds me. He made me with one purpose: I am here to bear witness. And I take that charge seriously, with great reverence and gratitude for that which I am privileged to see. Like the connection between my daughter, a homeless man and me in front of a Costa Mesa diner. A disheveled man with bright blue eyes in a sun-beaten face, whose name is Kevin. Who connected with my brand newly 26 year old daughter Zoe and me. The one who said, "I was just wondering what to do about dinner" when we offered him a burrito, uneaten, with a clean fork, knife, napkin, and a gorgeous fruit juice. I looked at him and took him straight into my heart. We will never see each other again but Kevin is a part of me now and I am a part of him and that is because God showed him to me, and me to him. Our hearts met because we could see. Like the nights - so many of them - when I leaned, exhausted after a long shift at the hospital, and stared down at my three daughters, sleeping in their little beds. I drank in the sight of them, lying there with their tousled hair and the innocence of sleep dusting their beautiful small faces. It was hard, lonely and scary being a single mom but every time I looked at my girls, my heart cracked wide open and new strength flowed through my tired veins, giving me life to keep going one more day - for them. Like when my parents' house was leveled by a tornado and I watched my 82 year old father searching through rubble for pieces of the 70-year-old train set he's had since his father gave it to him when Papa was 12. That strong man, that beautiful heart, that frail body, bent and weak after twin heart attacks, a stroke, and heart surgery less than a year ago...his will, his courage, his beauty shone like a bright light over all the broken bricks, splintered wood, uprooted tree trunks. Like the way God made me a Pied Piper of animals, mine and other people's and strays. I love them all the same. Ruffy, the tiny toy poodle who became my love, the son I never had, the husband I should have had! Ruffy, who became my dearest companion for the next eleven years til he died at 18. I think Ruffy is still with me. How could he be gone? I feel his presence. I loved him then and I will love him always. Thank you, Dillie, for being his first mom and for allowing me to be his last. And Molly, Beau, Dearie, Goldie, Sadie, Peter Criss, Lily, Sophie, Nahla, Ollie. To every animal I have ever seen wandering the streets, I pray each time that you will be safe, fed, protected. I give you food if I can. I love you. I see you. I see squirrels darting, raccoons scooting, deer leaping across roads and I pray to God for you to make it, and for you to live long lives, free from hunters and fast cars. You matter because I see you. We are all living souls. Like the one who gave life to me, my strong honest God-fearing mother. I watch her raising her grandchildren. She is 74 years old. Every morning she gets up and takes three kids to school. Every night she stays up late, getting clothes washed and lunches ready. I see you, Mama. I see your tiredness, your fear, your weariness and I also see your surviving spirit, your strong beating heart, your wisdom that goes on forever. Like the beauty of humanity: people making human chains to save one dog, a woman giving her life to save her child's, people of faith sacrificing for their beliefs, one homeless man giving his coat to a homeless child. This life is a gift to us from God. That's what I believe. You don't have to believe that way. One thing we all need to do, though, is find a way to bear witness. If we don't, it will go away. And we, as a people, will have lost out on an entire universe of honest, simple, ordinary, common moments that are actually magical, beautiful, wondrous, glorious, sacred, and holy.