One of the benefits of a torn calf muscle is being forced to sit down. For the past few days, I’ve parked myself downstairs on a small stool and sorted through boxes. This is part of my ultimate plan to carve out a permanent space for a writing desk for me. Currently, I write on a collapsible Costco table that stays in our guest room until guests arrive, which is often, and I’m compelled to take the table down. (Not that our guests would complain! Just that my papers and books overwhelm the space. Bottom line: I need a surface that is permanent.)
Today, I found this note from my mother, one of hundreds I’ve saved. She was a faithful correspondent, always clipping and sending me articles: about adoption, Guatemala, child-rearing, museums, the dance world. Her handwriting is so distinctive and energized, like my mother herself. Even her choice of stationery is revelatory.
I miss her every day.
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