I found out who she was after she was gone
The week after the funeral I sat on her bedroom floor with a box of notebooks on my lap. A Tuesday in 1994. The price of gas. What she really thought about my dad's new job. A line about me at nine years old that I have read maybe forty times since.
Nobody warned me that the woman in those pages would be funnier and more afraid than the mother I knew. That is what writing does. It keeps the person, not the schedule.





