On Cape Cod, September 1980.
Most of all, I remember my mother’s kindness to me. You’re probably thinking, of course she was kind to you; she
was your mother. But I’ve lived long enough to know that this isn’t always true. Love and kindness are different things.
One of my fondest memories: when it was time to take the training wheels off my bike, Mom (my father was in
Vietnam) held the grab bar behind the banana seat of my Schwinn Sting-Ray, running beside me, promising not to release
me until I said that it was okay. We went along like this together, all the way to the bend in the sand road behind my
grandparents’ house, but I still wasn’t ready. So we turned around, and—about half the way back—I told her to let go.
Mom had left this decision to me alone, which was both gentle and beautiful, like her. Now, at last, my mother herself
has been released, at the top of a long hill, to travel in the bright sunshine there. Thanks for reading this brief tribute.