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December 7, 2011

My mother died two years ago today.
I wanted to be there but I wasn’t.
And now though I’d love to feel her presence I rarely ever do.
She was a gifted pianist with a lovely light touch,
an excellent, fast, accurate typist
an avid reader, a practical joker.
Baked a perfect pie crust.
She had a quick, beautiful smile,
loved babies, roses, the ocean,
disliked birds, cold weather, Halloween.
She sang old songs, played cards, let us jump on the furniture,
taught me how to sew, how to cut up a chicken.
She loved traveling with our Aunt Marie,
had a green thumb with Christmas cactus and African violets,
enjoyed an evening cocktail of Kahlua and vodka,
disliked champagne but did like the McDonald’s fish sandwich.  
An elegant young woman, she later grew plump and huggable.
She took up painting in her 80s, filled her small home with pictures.
She was beloved by all our friends, all her friends, all of us.
So now where is she?  
I tap my fingers to music in just that way she did.
Maybe she’s there, right there
in the music we both loved.

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