Today is the anniversary of my mom’s passing. You wouldn’t think after 23 years, I’d still get weepy, but I do. Some years, like today, the anniversary date falls on Memorial Day. That seems to make it even more poignant for me.
Her favorite flower was deep, dark purple iris. As a tribute to her, I have a cluster of them that bloom every year at this time. There’s a gorgeous bouquet of them on my table today in her honor. They remind me of her beauty—both inside and out.
When I think about it, she inspired me to write. She loved to tell me stories every night before bed when I was a kid. She would make them up as she went along and always sent me off to sleep with a cliffhanger, leaving me desperate for the next night’s episode. Her stories were elaborate and often complicated, with many plot twists. I loved them.
They were about faeries and elves, princes and princesses. And I was always one of the characters, although I had many different names. Now that she’s gone, I wish she’d written them down so I could have shared them with my children.
My mom often read books to me too, encouraging a deep and abiding love for them. And for stories of all shapes and sizes. When I got older, I read to her and then graduated to reading on my own every night before bed. That pattern has never changed over the years. I continue to read every night before falling asleep. I truly believe reading makes for better writing.
Moms are a beautiful blessing in our lives. Mine left me too early. So often I wish I could pick up the phone and talk over something with her, ask her advice, get her perspective. She was my best cheerleader, always supportive of my various endeavors, especially the creative ones like writing, painting or dancing.
Here’s to you, Mom. I still love you more than words can convey. And I still adore stories about faeries. Look closely. I’m sure there’s one hidden in the iris, winking at us.