not singing the song is HARD

But it is a small world, after all.

When I was little, I had a mom, but she died of cancer when I was 16. She was a lot of things to me-- beautiful, magical, crazy, hilarious, dorky, sad, intelligent, tragic, unique, and strong. (Plus a million other things, but those are a few.)

When I was about 14, mom moved to Montgomery. She lived there for a year and a half or so before moving back to Atlanta to be closer to my brother and me. A couple of months after having moved back, she was diagnosed with cancer. She died almost three months later.

Fast forward 18 years to the present day. I'm involved with a wonderful, crazy, fun, dysfunctional-family sort of women friends. So is my stepmom, who lives in Atlanta, where I grew up. This past Friday, she was out to a "liquid lunch" with her group of these crazy friends when the True, One-And-Only Leader of this group (we'll call her Jill) stopped by. She was in town for the weekend on business. She brought along an associate from her publishing company (we'll call him Randall Mouse). They stay for a while, then go on to do their business stuff. That night, stepmom sees them again at a business cocktail party. They all visit some more, mixing and mingling, I would imagine, and everybody has a great time.

Now fast forward (or it might be backward now, I don't know- I am chronologically challenged) to Monday morning. Stepmom calls to chat about some socks that aren't mine, then says, "in other news..." and goes on to tell me about Friday. And that, in speaking with this Randall, she discovered that he was friends with my mom. In Montgomery. Twenty years ago. "He knew who I was before I even finished my story," she says. Um, what story were you TELLING?

She goes on to tell me that they were close. That "she shared her feelings with him." Feelings? "Like what feelings?!" "Well, that she felt guilty (for leaving), and that she missed y'all (my brother and me) and stuff like that." Well, she might has well have just started speaking to me in Swahili right then and there, because I got stuck on the thought of my stepmom talking to someone she'd just met at a cocktail party about my mom who's been dead 18 years' FEELINGS. I mean, not to sound too much like Yoda, but a fan of my mother she was not.

"I don't understand-- how on Earth did you figure that out? Did you tell him your last name or something? How did he know who you were?!"

"I don't remember."

More questions. More amnesia. She doesn't remember. Doesn't remember what story she was telling, how he made the connection, zilch. And I can't imagine what she could possibly be saying to make him realize that he knew my mom.

So let's fast forward or whatever- I'll let you choose which way- to now. I couldn't stand not knowing how it came up or why or anything else, so I got in touch with him. I emailed him yesterday to say hello and isn't it weird and it's a small world blah-di-blah. He wrote me right back and said to give him a call. So I got to speak to Randall myself. And it turns out that he was a friend of my mom's. A good friend, who knew her. Who got her. He remembered and told me how interesting she was, how beautiful she was, how much she loved us, how hard her life and choices had been-- all of it. He sounds like he was a great friend to her. And he still thinks of her, twenty years later. It was a great conversation.

I called my dad afterwards to share this conversation with him. I'd not been very emotional while on the phone with Randall, but the tears started to come when I told my dad this: it meant so much to me to hear from somebody else (that wasn't related to her) how strong and vibrant and unique she was. That she'd left a mark on somebody else's life, too. That I wasn't the only one who "got" her. That somebody else, other than "us," still thought of her.

Today I miss my mom.