in their celestial kitchen

Love, and memories, and massive gobs of empathy.

a diary of a mom

Monday afternoon.

Brooke and I are in the car, on our way home.

“Do you remember when Kiki was crying in January?” she asks.

I try tocall up a script, but come up dry. I’m not sure what my response is supposed to be.

“Why was Kiki crying?” I ask.

“In January,” she says.

Ah, now I know where she’s going.

“Do you mean when Ooma died, honey?” I ask.

“Uh huh. What did you tell me? About how what we’d been practicing was really happened.”

“I told you that Ooma had passed away,” I say.

“How did you say it?” she asks.

She needs to hear the words, to replay the exact conversation. It hurts, but it’s necessary. It’s how she processes – how we process together.

We repeat the words, then drive for a moment in silence.

“Do you think Ooma and Grandma Noe are baking together?” she…

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