A funny thing.

Did I expect to inherit my Aunt Karen’s laugh?

Or my Bonmama’s  index finger?

Can I lament the kink in my eyebrow, which mirrors my mom’s, even when it’s a mother to tweeze?

People write books about inheritance, but they always mean money or titles or yachts.

Which is sort of missing the point.

I’d rather inherit life. And wisdom. And stories.

I’m glad my life has always been filled with mothers of all shapes and sizes. Each one indelibly imprinted on my world.

And every day I am thankful. Because even among the millions, my mom’s still the best.

Crazy as a loon and different every day, but just right. Just the way she is.



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