The last time we stood here was a little less than a year ago. The sun was shining; a huge yellow butterfly hovered round your family and friends, suspended by an invisible thread from wherever you are.
I am writing this on Friday and Saturday, the forecast calls for no rain. Your favorite joke, aside from the mildly inappropriate Father Nelson one was "Want to know how to make G-d laugh? Tell him your plans." I am gambling by writing this, but I know you too well, my girl (I do not have your golden casino touch): you will keep the skies clear today, the sun will shine. And if rain does fall, it will mirror our tears.
Mom, we stood here, the day of your funeral, 322 days ago. 322 days is not a year. It is 43 days short of a year. You showed us all what a day is worth. We follow the path you set for us, you gave us the gift of your love, your moral guidance through the world, the love of books and animals and family and friends. You taught us that the dash between was more important than the dates on either side, and so, the dash between your date of birth, and the date of your too soon death (57 years was not enough), is long and fat, fed on love and rightness and Swedish Fish.
Mom, you died in the shadow of the Strawberry Moon. The super moon reigned this weekend, the largest and most spectacular of the year. At 8:35 pm on Saturday night, it reached its perigee and slipped close to the Earth. Mom, you are our super moon, the most dazzling moon that ever was. You hold us in your incandescent orbit, always.
We love you.
I love you.
I am your daughter, Leigh Michelle Batnick Plessner, and I thank you for giving me life, and teaching me how to live it.