Mother didn’t finish her memoir, Memories. Memories. Lost memories. Memories unfinished. A book called Memories. It was almost as if God’s will had taken over Mother’s future. I didn’t notice. I was too busy to register the significance of taking on the task of writing a memoir or to be encouraging enough to help. I don’t know if I actually read Mother’s letter. I have no recollection. I was content to assume Mom was free from the drama of raising us kids and now she had all the time she needed to devote to her artistic pursuits. Of course, I made sure I didn’t know what was going on. I had
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