You would like Jane. She tells stories with a smooth-tipped pencil, one that had been used often and is in need of sharpening – or else I think she would had I seen her handwriting. She is my pen pal, or, as modern day would call it, my e-mail pal. She is old enough to be my mother, but we hardly talk that way. 
Jane and I have only known each other six weeks. We speak through typewritten words, sent electronically through cyber space. We talk about mothers and children and the lowcountry of South Carolina. She is my friend.
I think …read more

I have my mother’s hands. They are a woman’s hands, creased and well used. Nearly 10 years to the day my mother passed away, I still remember holding hers, stroking her long fingers, telling her it was OK to die.
There are reminders of her everywhere, pushing out from mounds of pansies in my garden or in passages of a thick Pat Conroy novel. At times I can feel her with an intensity that startles me. Browsing hosta in a garden shop or scraping wallpaper from the bathroom walls, I am doing what she did. I am becoming her.
Nine months after …read more