I recently started working on a book about my mother. Nothing major; or even for publication; just a little history tome for my own family.

My mom was an incredible woman. She suffered some pretty major hardships in her lifetime, but somehow she persevered. I’m not sure I could have done as well in her place.

She wasn’t perfect, by any stretch. She could be mean and demanding; martyred and depressing; ignorant and sarcastic. But she could also love you so fiercely you believed you could do anything.

She had the remarkable ability to convince those she loved that no one would ever love them as much. Most of us in the family believe, to this day, that she loved us more than we will ever be loved again.

I miss her like crazy and find myself wishing she were here to answer the questions about her life that pop into my head so frequently lately .

See, I only ever knew her as "mom".  It wasn’t until I had to grow up (read: after her death) that I longed to know her as a person.