what others see . . .

Writing has always been an essential part of who I am--so essential, in fact, that I've never been able to distance who I am from what I write. Which is why I am not a writer.

Being a published writer has been on the to-do list--well near the top of that list, in fact--all of my life. Accepting that I have chosen not to follow that path has taken most of that lifetime.

Among my greatest pleasures are the writing achievements of two of my children. The third, as did I, came to write as easily as she came to breathe--and, as I did, chose to write for herself, not for the world. For my oldest and youngest, learning to write was a more visible process. Yet they are the ones who chose career paths that hinged on their ability to write professionally--clear, crisp, yet thought-provoking technical pieces that would have sorely tasked my wordiness, my love of long winding streams of thinking on paper.

My oldest child's second book is being released on Friday--but my Amazon pre-order arrived late this afternoon.

I burned my dinner.

I was in tears.

This is what all mothers and teachers dream of,

in their heart of hearts.

Tucked away, on page iv . . . my name . . . and this:

--for being my sounding board, cheerleader, teacher, cemetery-traipsing buddy, and friend. But, most of all, for being my mother.

Mother and teacher and friend of a published writer? What greater accomplishment is there?

I had to smile through the tears at the cemetery-traipsing buddy, remembering our rain-drenched pilgrimage at the close of last year, remembering North Carolina cornfields in the fall and gonebutnotforgotten Silas and Henrietta with the elusive last name, remembering Johnstown and Crespieres, remembering cemetery traipsing with friends from Chapel Hill to Charleston, remembering (if dimly so) Sunday visits to baby brother Jimmy Mike, remembering Daddy . . .

What others see . . .

. . . and remember.

Memory chains linking us all.

Thank you, Kimberly!