My mom has been gone for a long, long time. More than two decades. She died at 73 from lung cancer, which you almost never get unless you smoke. But smoking was “glamorous” when she was a growing up. Turned out to be the most unglamorous death you can imagine.
It’s been 23 years, and still if I had a wish, it might be to just spend one more day with her. She was warm, and could make friends with the most unlikeable people. She was a natural born reporter, and could get anybody to spill their secrets in the span of five minutes. She was a killer cook. She was most at home at the beach. She was absurdly optimistic. She was HYSTERICALLY funny.
I miss her everyday. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. Seriously, 23 years later, and I think of her at least once a day.
But she was a great match for me–a champion of everything I did. She is 90% of the reason I could be a halfway decent mom myself. I realize how fucking fortunate I was to get that one, that mom, and to have had her as long as I did. Whatever brought us together will never pull us apart. She was something, Luigina Constantina Gabriella Rotello Friedman.