Twenty years ago today. . .

Twenty years ago today, my mom, Connie, died.  Twenty years ago today, my mom was fifty-three years old.  For twenty years now, I have been missing my mom.

When my son, Dante was maybe four, I had just finished reading him a bedtime story—a serious ritual which I still try to maintain.  As I bent over him to deliver a kiss, he looked up at me with those big liquid eyes and said emphatically, "Poor you!"

I was taken aback, the look of concern on his face was so intense, his voice wavering.  "Why Dante?  Why do you say that?"

"Because," he said, as if it were obvious.  "You don't have a mommy!"

.     .     .

Today I remember Connie.  As if this were something new.  There isn't a day that' goes by that I don't think of her.  . . .

(phone call from my uncle—my mom's older brother—who I am thinking of as I write this, thinking I must send him an email as soon as I finish this post)

There she goes, through my mind, through my office, between my uncle and me.  There my mother is.  There she will always be.