I love when I have the realization that bits of me are her.
There are many images that come to mind when I think of my mom. When I think of her writing, I can picture her at bedtime, in bed, propped up with a couple pillows, writing in her journal. She would be in her pi’s and have a glass of rye and water on her nightstand and her gold rimmed glasses on. And I would come in and sit down next to her and chat. Tell her about my day. What was good, what was bad. And she would pause and listen. And then I would say goodnight, whether I too was going to bed or just heading out for the night. And she would go back to writing.
I have realized that recently, my writing has migrated to my bed. I used to always sit on the couch in my living room, but now there is something tempting about getting into bed and writing. Maybe it’s the comfort of being able to write, then immediately read my book and turn out my light. Or maybe I just like my room better now. Or maybe because I seem to always have a furry writing partner with me.
It doesn’t really matter the reason. What matters is that I love when i realize that bits of me are her.