It's Easter weekend and I can't stop thinking about eggs. Not the chocolate kind - though they're everywhere - but the ones sitting a small bowl that NJ made. They were Mom's, and they remind me so much of her: their colours, and how she would pick one up and enjoy the shape of it in her hand.
It was her birthday last Sunday.
When I got the news that I was going to have to get my appendix out - I cried, but I didn't tell the surgeon that my mother had had a stroke during a bypass operation, and had never woken up.
Thinking of Mom, and thinking of eggs and their potent symbolism of ressurection and new life.
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