You think you will always remember.
You think you will never forget.
But you do forget.
Little things—the slant of light, the color of the sky, the words someone said, the order of things—all the particulars of the joy, or despair or wonder fade after time.
I’m saying this now because the anniversary of my mother’s death was last week, and I got out my journal and read my account of those last days (eight years ago), and I was surprised by all I had forgotten.
My mother had a good life.
And at the end, in the hospital, she was surrounded by a circle of people who knew her well and loved her.
My brother was in Scotland when the news came that my mother was going to die soon, very soon. He got on one flight and then another and then another, and the whole time he was traveling to her, friend after friend held my mother’s hand and said, “Hold on, Betty. He’s making his way to you. Hold on.”
I had forgotten that—all those people who exhorted her to stay until my brother arrived.
And she did.
Stay until he arrived.
It’s written down—all of it–here in this notebook.
Thank goodness.
And thank you, Betty DiCamillo, for your good life.

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