I am my mother's daughter.

I am my mother's daughter when I entertain company. Any occasion for her was an occasion to serve her signature chicken curry or chocolate fudge-icing bundt cake and Maxwell House coffee. I love to entertain. She used to say I was the only daughter who got that gene.

I am my mother's daughter when I pull out the special napkins for said company. When I fuss over the pretty dishes and making sure everyone is satisfactorily fed and nurtured.

I am my mother's daughter when I indulge my creativity and delight in putting together an outfit, plucking from the closet  the perfect accessory to adorn.

I am my mother's daughter when I put together a home. The pictures hung. The favorite oriental rug unfurled in just the right spot. The beloved sofa positioned, the warm wood of a table to accompany.

I am my mother's daughter when I drink the water left over from the empty container that held the celery.

I am my mother's daughter when I drink my coffee with cream and no sugar.

I am my mother's daughter when I write a thank you note. (I hope she doesn't know how poorly I'm failing at it these days.) Doing so was a religious tenant for her.

I am my mother's daughter when I offer the workmen a glass of cool water.

I am my mother's daughter when I write. When I paint. When I create….

My friend Kris once told me it'd be like this when I lost a parent. That I'd be going about my daily business when I realize in some benign act somehow her presence still infiltrates my own.

Mother, I love you. As of next month, you will have left us three years ago. I am your daughter. 

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This "Journey with Grace" is a part of a forthcoming e-book series on death, dying, aging parents and sandwiched adult children. I keep thinking I'm ready to publish it when inspiration for yet another post strikes again. And. Again.