My mother
is
was a 60-year-old women, but a 39-year-old mother. Her obituary
will someday say
says she is survived by two children: a son, a daughter. It
will say
says she is survived by a husband, who loves
loved her.
With four brothers and one sister, with dozens of houses in dozens of places she once called home, with friends she
has known
knew for more than 40 years, it
will say
says her life was full.
She
is
was a songwriter, a guitar player, a musician—with slender fingers and chewed-off nails and thin calluses since she
doesn't
didn't play enough to build up those thick finger-pads with comma-shaped indents on each tip. When she sings
sang her voice lifts
lifted above her strumming guitar to sing of her darkness and of her Maker's loving kindness.