I can't ask her how much weight she gained while pregnant or what foods made her sick, but I can remember all those leg rubs she gave me. She would come into my room, sit on the edge of my bed, put my legs in her lap, and massage my cramping calves. She was my best masseuse. She did this night after night for me from the time I can remember, possibly five or six years old, until past twenty. Never did I hear her complain about the time it took up or the frequency of my requesting it.
Sometimes I feel so close to her, I can see her brunette ponytail and smile as she carries around another grandchild. And talk to her I can. But my lips purse at the thought and nothing comes out. I want to talk to my baby too, but also feel funny about that because I can't see him/her either. But I guess there's nothing like doing. I have so many good memories with Mom even up until her last breaths, and sometimes I want to talk to her about them. I want to keep the memories fresh and alive because they're what I've got of her.