I am on a new medication and it gives me a dry mouth. My solution is to keep a ziploc baggie of scotch mints in my purse.
They sit next to the package of kleenex.
Which makes me my mother.
Last Saturday I saw my hairdresser. Who has been seeing me since I was 6. We both had heart failure that I was turning 40 soon enough. She reminded me. I have good genes. I will age well enough.
On my dresser sits a picture of my hand holding hers, as she died. I marvel at how alike our hands are. Short and stubby fingers. Strong hands. I think of her as I do certain things. Send thank you cards. Set the table. Dress nicely wherever I go. As I made reference to “wearing my grubs” to go and help a friend with some painting.
I thought of this, not unhappily, as I sat on a bench next to the man my mother was dating when she died, arguing politics.
Sometimes, in the right light, when I am tired, I will see the lines in her face, in mine. Sometimes, when I am arguing about politics, I will hear her voice, in mine.
She would have been 70 last week.
I miss her.