Anyone who has ever had the chance to listen to my mother sing or read would know she was an artist at heart. From my earliest memories, she rocked me in her arms as she read “A Child’s Garden of Verses,” all of A. A. Milne. Her voice took me to the realm of love and magic, listening to my favorite story, “the Little Match Girl,” with all vividness of Hans Christian Anderson spiriting me into the surreal. She read so as I could see, touch, taste and smell each word.
I grew up engulfed in the stuff of princesses and the fact that anything was possible. Everything was delightful romance. Oh, how I miss her. Mother is buried now, napping the years away, hunkered down amidst memories and miracles. Yet I am still luxuriating in her tenacious love of me, the hum of her warm hands holding my own.