There’s the one percent of the one percent — a beautiful, moving glimpse of a snapshot, a poetic detail reflecting something deeper and universal.
When I lost my mom, I had the feeling that not one family member or friend really knew, let alone remembered, the totality of her as a person (myself included).
At the same time, it was so difficult for me to remember the essence of her, rather than the shell she had become after battling the ravages of senile dementia for 10 years.
It’s taken six years for me to process everything about our troubled relationship. But now I’m closer to voicing why she was so important to me: “sacrificed everything to be June Cleaver instead of Vincent Van Gogh.”