In Which My Heavy Heart Finds the Words

She spoke seven languages. She grew awesome tomatoes. She had a killer sense of humor: Me: Let me see if I've got this right-It's ok if I'm a lesbian, but it's not ok if I have a tattoo? Dad: (lowering Wall Street Journal) Lesbian? We thought you said "thespian." Mom: We wondered why you never invited us to see you in any productions. We just figured you couldn't act. No wonder I am just not right. Back in the day she showed up in the society pages frequently, all Jackie-O, but also argued that you could wear a sweatshirt 4 times: Frontwards, backwards, inside-out and frontwards, and inside-out and backwards. She could fly. Not metaphorically, but literally. The family motto is "The family that flies together, dies together." (See above about me not being right.) She could sew, but could also frame a garage. Could be traditional, yet was very independent. My dad thought she was perfect, and she was, for him. They had the best marriage I've ever seen. Met, and married 10 days later. Didn't have kids for 15 years because they were having too much damn fun. They traveled all over the world. Their passports were ridiculous: Thailand, India, Sri Lanka, Myanmar, Japan, Philippines, a bunch of Northern African countries, most of Europe, Iceland, Mexico, Santa Domingo, Cuba, and I'm not done. I just can't remember any other this minute.

She was my mom.