again  on this terra firma will I hear my mother’s voice call my name. When I enter a room she will not be there to fix her small blue eyes upon me, waiting for her standard kiss and hug, with “Whatcha’ doin’ Ma?” or “Hi Ma!” …

Tomorrow would be her ninety-fifth birthday.

I have white flowers for her grave. She would like that.

I love you Ma. Happy 95th Birthday.

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