once in an adolescent blue moon, someone grabs you by the shirt collar (in my case, a pink floyd t-shirt from a concert i never saw) and slaps you across the face with a bit of common sense. for me, it was my 8th grade english teacher.

she who had physically housed me during the rockiest part of my parents' early-nineties divorce was subsequently she who coaxed me into this hobby we call writing (for those of you that remember OM, i was awarded the ranatra fusca for a script i wrote in iambic pentameter under her coaching supervision), was also she who taught me that you don't end paragraphs with parentheses.

it was also she who lent me money in college, and she who attended every play, every stupid restaurant i ever commandeered, every work function, every milestone, and did it with vigor.

she is, what some might consider, obtrusive - loud, outspoken, always right, a glutton for attention - the exact opposite of passive aggressive, didn't care much for housework and loves a bargain as much as she does a tall rum and diet with a lime.

even after retirement, her schedule was booked with board meetings and brunches as much as happy hour any time i cared to pick up the phone.

when people in public asked if she was my mother, she would say yes and turn and laugh to me, because it happened so often.

today, she wears an eye patch. her hair is short, and is not as salt-and-pepper as the last time she lost her hair. but she still has a penchant for one-liners, and as a registered republican is still vocal about hating the bush administration. the swarms of people in her house at any given time these days are always concerned about her appetite, but she refuses to eat unless someone else is eating too.

she loves james taylor.

when it gets crowded and boisterous, i field my wont to return the mothering. so many other ex-students and friends wanna give her the care and attention that most hospice patients need (imagine all these ladies putting their attentive instinct to work all at once), and its kind of interesting to revert back to the quiet, reserved, observative 7th grader i was before she burst in, and watch people swarm her with cautious inquisition.

she wants no funeral, no memorial service - she just wants to watch all of us divide up her things, and be women and girls all at once. she wants to be "burned," and her ashes divided amongst anyone who cares for them, and to make sure her heathen is in good standing.

yesterday during my daily afternoon visit, her apartment was emptier than i'd seen it in the last few weeks. there was a half of a moment when we were by ourselves - she stays on the couch - and we looked at each other long and hard.

"probably." she said.

i perked my ears, and before i could respond, she chimed, "whatever your thinking, the answer is 'probably.'"

she's been fire, and she's been rain, and sometimes the company you keep is the company you lose. among the many things i'm taking is a perfectly preserved copy of the OM script i wrote 14 years ago.