The last conversation I had with my mother went something along the lines of me telling her that I pushed her to do new things because I loved her, I was scared that she was becoming lethargic, more of a passive observer than a productive participant. It was possibly the most adult conversation we had ever had. My last words to my mother were "I love you," which has brought me no small amount of comfort. After her passing, going through the evidence of her life, I found print outs of emails, postcards sent form my travels, notes I had sent her when I went away for college. My favorite artifact: a postcard sent from the Vatican upon which I scribed, I was here and did not burst into flames. I doubt she ever became comfortable with my atheism. I sorted through these things this morning, remembering her and remembering how delightfully flawed and impossibly loving she was. Oh, I loved her, and continue to love her, in delightfully flawed and impossible ways.
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