This spring will mark ten years since I lost my mother, but even a decade later, barely a day goes by that I don’t think about her. I wish I could talk to her about the big things—the great grandchildren she never got to meet, her granddaughters, our extended family. Even as I veer toward my own senior citizen status, I still crave her wisdom and advice. I’d love to laugh with her again, to do a little harmless gossiping, to hear her vent over the current state of the world. 

Mom was a force of nature, and when such a force departs the world, it leaves a vacuum in its wake.

The release of my first book tomorrow makes me especially yearn for her. Mom was a voracious reader, and I think she would have been crazy proud of me for writing and publishing a novel. She dabbled at writing herself, creating essays and a few short fiction pieces that were pretty remarkable. She never tried to publish, though, and I believe she would have seen her own passions blossom in the fulfillment of my dream. Sometimes, when I’m pecking away at my keyboard, it’s as if I feel her presence, her genes running through my fingers and into my writing.

I wonder if Mom would have recognized herself in Maggie Cassidy, my protagonist’s mother. Even if she didn’t see the obvious similarities, I know she would have loved the sarcastic, funny, headstrong, fiercely protective character. She would have raised an eyebrow and nodded when Maggie scolds her daughter for taking too many risks, at the same time as she encourages her to do what she knows is right. 

In a way, this book is a gift to my mother, an offering to her legacy.

She’s not here to read it, but I hope somehow she knows about it, and that it gives her a smile.  

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