11 Years

Eleven years ago today, August 24, my mother died. She was 56 years old. I am 48 years old. She was not old at all.

Regular readers know she passed away from pancreatic cancer. It is a terrible disease, and I'm sorry to say, one that took my husband's aunt in January of this year.

This is my mother. The picture was taken on my wedding day, and this is pretty much how I remember her. Dark hair, lovely, all made-up and ready to take on the world. My grandfather always said she looked like Elizabeth Taylor.

My mother gave me irises when I built my house. She told me when she dying she would send me something orange so I would believe in the afterlife, and she did.

She could curse like a sailor, my mom, and she could yell loud enough to make bees freeze in midair. She would go on the warpath and we'd all know we'd best get to doing something.

Mom taught me to act like a lady when it counted, and to always wear good underwear. And to never go out in public without my makeup.

My mother could sing. She could paint, sew, and dance. She could cook anything out of nothing and make it taste good, too.

Some days I miss her.

You can read more about my mother at this entry, if you like.

Thanks for reading.