Last spring when the scent of lilacs followed me from the backyard into my kitchen, I thought of my mother’s distant cousin and her daughters, who, like my lilacs, visited yearly when the earth warmed and the days grew longer. I pictured us all in idyllic memories of jump rope games and playing with dolls. But, except for MaryAnn, the littlest daughter, I could not remember their names.
A few years ago, I could have called my mother. She would have teased me for my forgetfulness, asked what I was making for dinner (there was never a phone conversation where we didn’t talk about food) and repeated her mother-to-daughter mantra, “When are you coming over?” We would have shared stories of those long-ago days before hanging-up and re-joining our lives. But my mother has passed on and while the images of our family lingers-the details are lost. I write One more thing before I go, my living record for my son, in hope that one day, when he has a question I can no longer answer, it can be found in this blog.
There was a time when a snapshot took days to view: Someone had to bring a camera, convince people to pose, snap the photo, then drop off the film and wait a week to see the pictures. Still, then as now, while posers may have been captured for a moment, their secret selves were not revealed. To know who they are and the stories they hide, you need memories.
Read MoreI’m the author of Bird and Fish, its sequel; Sea and Sky and my latest novel; Alice Again. I wasn’t always a writer. I started out much the same as other women; moving along from baby to girl, woman to wife and mother, teacher to restless. Restless is the best ally a writer can have. It made me leave a super career with a steady pay-check to settle into a solitary regimen of breathing life into a handful of ideas. I’ve never been happier.
