I am moving which entails packing up my home and fighting dust. Lots and lots of dust. In amongst the boxes and files and stacks of paper I have found letters from my mother to me when I was at school and for the first time been able to track how she talked to me as I grew from 14 to 18 years old.
This is an amazing thing about her, she never spoke to me any differently though some of the issues she spoke about changed. She always treated me as an adult when it came to discussing anything and her typing was always terrible, often because the ribbon was running low as she used it mostly for her books.
And love. Every letter so full of hope for me, looking forward to seeing me on the holidays, hoping for the best for her work. She once told me if you wish upon a star it is because you need to, and that self-deprecating style of talking to me knowing she had an excellent mind but with the vagaries of publishing it was not guaranteed anyone who admit it.
I miss that. The smiles. The laughter. The joy of knowing she was alive.