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My life is being taken up in damned coffee spoons again. I just miss my art chudabala mother. I'm 39, about to turn 40, and I want my mother. I want her laughter, her voice on the telephone, to show her my garden, to tell her about my work, to show her my writing, to take her to Florence. I do not have art chudabala the words to tell you how much I loved her, and what an incredible person she was. The more I watch other people's kids, and the tools they art chudabala bring to being a parent, the more I think she was a feminist ahead of her time. I will be sending an easter basket to a friend. Easter brings back, loudly, the spring my mother died. Our egg hunt with the two cutest two-year-old girls ever. Morphine. Hair falling out. Her being thirsty and hungry and cold, and complaining that no one was touching her. When she said that, I climbed into her hospital bed (which was in the room in their house that had been "mine"), and just curled up around her.
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