Nine Years Ago Today
I wrote this post six years ago on the 3rd anniversary of my mothers death.
My mother was not perfect. She lost her Mom when she was a small child. She was biracial in the the 30's in Kansas City and she fought hard for everything she had. She had two daughters while still in her teens, both of whom were adopted out. She would never open up and tell me the circumstances around either pregnancy. She was not very trusting of others, up until the end that is. My childhood was not a fairy tale.
I loved her with all of my heart. I did not judge her for her actions. Her skin was soft and warm like velvet and I miss her terribly today and every day. She used to call me duckie or ducks and I would give anything to hear her call me that right now.
"It is often said that something may survive of a person after his death if that person was an artist and put a little of himself into his work. It is perhaps in the same way that a sort of cutting taken from one person and grafted onto the heart of another continues to carry on its existence even when the person from whom it had been detached has perished." ~Proust
My mother was not perfect. She lost her Mom when she was a small child. She was biracial in the the 30's in Kansas City and she fought hard for everything she had. She had two daughters while still in her teens, both of whom were adopted out. She would never open up and tell me the circumstances around either pregnancy. She was not very trusting of others, up until the end that is. My childhood was not a fairy tale.
I loved her with all of my heart. I did not judge her for her actions. Her skin was soft and warm like velvet and I miss her terribly today and every day. She used to call me duckie or ducks and I would give anything to hear her call me that right now.
"It is often said that something may survive of a person after his death if that person was an artist and put a little of himself into his work. It is perhaps in the same way that a sort of cutting taken from one person and grafted onto the heart of another continues to carry on its existence even when the person from whom it had been detached has perished." ~Proust