Death and Purple Socks

My mom died on 10/11. She was young, 58. She lived her life on her own terms. She smoked like a chimney and refused to go to the doctor. Ultimately, she passed as she wanted, quickly. My relationship with my mom was at times strained. We had vastly different world views. Growing up, I felt she was often unfair. She teased me unmercifully and would gossip about me to her friends. She grasped the importance of material support, but did not fully grasp the emotional aspect of parenting. However, with the arrival of grandchildren, she softened. She was an exemplary grandparent, loving and doting on her grandkids up until her last breath.

I struggle to remember the contents of our last conversation, except how it started and how it ended. I would call her on my way to teach a class.  She would answer the phone and greet me with the phrase “Hello you dirty mouth motherfucker”. This was a joke between us, as my uncle had called my friend a “Dirty mouth motherfucker” in a heated Facebook discussion. The last words I told her were “Love you mom, talk to you later”.  I have no regrets about anything that happened between us. The angst of my teenage years and her bullheadedness helped us to form a relationship based on authenticity. That authenticity is what I will remember fondly, when I remember my mom.

I’m currently knitting a pair of socks for my sister’s birthday (Halloween). However, they are going to be a couple of weeks late. The sock are two at a time toe up socks. I used Judy’s Magic cast on and am going to do a fleegle heel. IMG_0149

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