How did my mother walk? What was the sound of her voice, the feel of her hands? Even her smell, coffee and Jergen’s lotion, has drifted away. When I close my eyes and think of her, all I see are a few old photos.
But yet, I lived with her for nearly eighteen years. Though we were not close, emotionally or physically, we visited each other occasionally until her last ten years before she died. That’s when I tried to talk to her about my childhood. It did not go well.
At that time, my father had nearly died and now lived with me. Mom was still in Alaska, but she called nearly every day.