I'm tired ... emotionally, mentally, physically fatigued like I haven't been before. I'm miles from home but yet, back home. I've spent the past six days packing up my mother's house in Indiana, attending her memorial service and tying up loose ends. I've talked to more people in the past week than I do in months, since I'm normally well-secluded from the rest of the world as I write from home at my kitchen table, my sofa, my office.
|My mother as a baby with her mom and sister.|
Mom was a great cook and I'm returning today to Texas with her recipe box in hand. Not only have my siblings, nieces and cousins instructed me to send copies of her recipes, they want them in her handwriting. Her penmanship is as unique as her fingerprint--we all need to feel that personal connection to her still. To see her words in her own hand, especially since we know she's written her last ones.
This coming year, I'm resolving to pick up journaling again--a practice I've abandoned in recent years after blogging and Facebook replaced my need to jot down my life experiences. This morning I realized that none of my children will fight over a printout of my blog or wish I'd posted more on Facebook, but I can see them clinging to my journals, arguing over who gets to keep them--maybe even slipping one into his or her bag while the others aren't looking.
My writing goals are usually geared toward publication--seeing my byline in print, eventually publishing a novel. But quite possibly my most memorable, most notable work will be seen by only a few. And that's just fine by me.