Nanowritemo 1 / only you

West Side Story Soundtrack










Note:  November 1st: National Novel Writing Month begins.  Will I make it?  Probably not.  I barely keep up with writing things daily, but we'll see...

“Who’s calling please?” I knew it was a telemarketer, but if you didn’t verify they tended to hang up before you could tell them you didn’t want to be called. It was then that the woman identified herself as calling from the Association of University Women and asked for my mother.



“I’m sorry, she’s been dead for five years, but I’ll tell her you called he next time I speak to her.” I answered sweetly.


“Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll remove the number...” The woman stammered and I hung up. I’d been through this before. More than once.


The first time I had been very polite and even sympathetic. I wondered how on earth they had gotten my phone number since, while yes, I was the executrix of the estate, it had then been four years and for me two moves and three different phone numbers. My mother never even saw the location I was living in, let alone used it or the phone number for a connected address.


It is all rather amazing. We’ve also recently started getting Time Magazine addressed to her. We’ve not requested it, let alone paid for it. Still, its two months now, each week like clock work. Imagine the money that could be saved if the world weren’t chasing after dead people for money?



I suppose I sound cavalier. More than once after my mother’s death I was glad I had come to terms with her and my emotions for the woman long played out. I couldn’t imagine how one went through the processes of funerals and so forth when they were actually upset about the loss. Of course, her funeral was not typical.


Since I was in high school I said that some day she would die and I wouldn’t know a soul who showed up at her funeral. That I would only then learn of a vast secret life and probably find out I had a long lost brother or something. That didn’t exactly happen, but it wasn’t exactly your typical experience either.


But in many ways, at least for me, my mother’s funeral really began years before she died.