My mother. She has been gone from this earth for nearly twenty years now. My memories of her have grown fewer and fewer, but somehow those that remain are no dimmer. I remember things that put a smile on her face the most.

But my favorite memory? I couldn’t come up with anything until now.

Back in the day, when I was much younger but no longer living in my parents’ home, I would go home to visit, usually for holidays or for their anniversary. I was almost certain to do one thing at these visits: decide to stay for one day longer than I had planned. I remember my mother’s smiling and commenting on my always doing just that. And that I always had a lot of cash in my pocket. Still do.

But my favorite memory of her was created just this past few days.

This past weekend, I drove to Brooklyn NY, a six-and-a-half-hour drive from my current home in upstate NY. Time was when I was a Brooklynite myself, for more than twenty years. I was there this time for a celebration of life for a family member. I was able to stay in the building that I had run a business out of, and that I still own. My eldest, a daughter, flew in from Nashville for the celebration.

Our visit together, just the two of us, was wonderful. We walked the familiar streets often, we talked intimately, we shared our first Omakaze meal together. The celebration opened up a lot of stuff I had never disclosed to her about her father’s death 15 years ago. I told her nearly all of the things I had protected her from knowing back when she was still a teen, back when her father was hopelessly dying and she was in her first year of college. That’s what we do, right, mothers? We protect. I protected then, and I gratefully answered questions now. I feel freer somehow, lighter, unburdened. And respected for the choices that I made, choices that I am sure looked odd to many others, perhaps even to her, back then.

She and I had both planned to leave Brooklyn on Monday morning, she on an early morning flight, and I in my car for the six-and-a-half-hour drive home, just me and my dog. But I decided to stay one more day, so I would be leaving the morning after my daughter did. Some things never do change.

She left for the airport. I was bereft, sobbing into her hair as she left. What makes me sad? Eric asked in another of his Monday memoir installments. I couldn’t think of anything, other than a loved ones dying, that makes me truly sad. This Monday morning I discovered what can make me instantly bereft - when someone I love as dearly as I love this daughter leaves to go back to their lives, that don’t intersect very often with mine in real time.

She texted, as she always does, when she arrived at the gate. Her flight was boarding.

She had a crazy thought! She wanted to come back, to stay with me for one more day! And she did. She took an Uber right back to me so that we could spend one more day together.

How is this my favorite memory of my mother? I understood fully that my staying for one more day back when I had flown or driven home made my own mother feel the love that I felt at that moment.

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What makes you sad? , and What is one of your favorite memories of your mother?. Every week Eric posts a question about our lives for us to answer, in hopes that, after a year, the participants will have produced a valuable collection of memories.This is my entry to two of @ericvancewalton's Memoir Mondays,

In Eric's words:

Someday all that will be left of our existence are memories of us, our deeds, and words. It's up to you to leave as rich of a heritage as possible for future generations to learn from. So, go ahead, tell your stories!

The image was taken by my daughter. Can you tell which one is me?