I wrote a song last night for Mom, and it fulfills William Zinsser’s recommendation when writing memoir to capture one’s own experience of family, instead of everyone else’s.
Mom passed away in 2004 of a rare cancer. I have a small picture of her trying to block me from taking a picture of her, her face radiant and joyous, her demeanor that of a best friend intimating “I’m kidding — but not really.”
That image stays on the top of a cabinet in the living room, where I can see it every day.
I wish you could see her as I did, and do. The song says it all more simply than I can here.