I got a note today from an old friend who had just heard the news about my mom. It was unexpected and sweet -- and yeah, it made me cry. Then again, just about everything makes me cry. It's one of the few ways that I am like my mother.
A couple of days ago, my brother told me that he talks to her when he's in the car. I'm a little jealous of that -- I don't feel like she's anywhere around to hear me.
I look in the mirror a lot, to see if I can see anything of her in me, but I don't see it. I never saw it. The only thing we ever had in common was our coloring, and even that's not quite right, since her eyes were somewhere between sky blue and grey, and mine are more green. Oh, and her hair was a darker brown than mine -- almost black before it started to go grey. I guess that's what I really have of hers -- the grey hair, but by the time she was my age, she had a lot more than I have now.
In the stupid notebook I wrote in on the plane, I jotted something about how my mother had the most beautiful hands. Her hands were larger than mine, her fingers were long and elegant, and, as long as I can remember, she always had long nails. My nails get long too, but my hands are tiny, and my fingers are small. I wish I had her hands. The grey hair I could do without.