|Dad, Mom and me in 1958.|
On 12/12/12 I wrote a post about the number twelve. Suddenly the number twelve has another meaning.
I think of my Mom often, but there are two dates that I think of her especially and miss her. As I said in a post a few years ago, some pains never really go away. You just get used to them. A little bit. Maybe.
One date I think fondly of Mom is her birthday, January 17.
The other date is today, November 21. Twelve years is a long time to miss you, Mom, but it went pretty fast.
Twelve years ago today I was laughing and talking with my Darling and my two youngest children. The phone rang. My brother Barry was on the line.
"Vince, you need to sit down," he said. I didn't hear the tremor in his voice.
"Okay," I replied, moving toward a chair in the dining area. "I'm sitting. What's up?"
I really should have been sitting. I dropped into the chair.
"You're sh*ing me." I wasn't poetic. I wish I had said something memorable, something less stupid. I was hoping, oh, so hoping that my brother had developed a really bad sense of humor.
Mom was making a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner before her fatal trip to the ER. She planned to have "her boys" over. That's what she called my brothers when she talked to me on the phone. She'd beam about how her boys were doing, catching me up on their life adventures with their wives and families. She'd enthrall me with tales of her grandchildren. I could see her eyes twinkle as she spoke.
I can still see her eyes twinkle as I write this.