I was reading a friend's post. She lost her mother last year, and although they were not close, she grieved.
My own mother is gone, and any chance that we had to see things a new way went to her grave with her.
You make your peace with that, and you do it the best you can.
On the second floor, tucked way in a little corner at the entrance of the third floor, I have a little nook. There are shelves with books. There is a desk. On that desk sits my mother's Smith-Corona typewriter, something that she got when she was in high school 60 years ago. Scattered about the space are things that remind me of her, or things that are hers, and they are mingled in with things that I love.
It is a quiet room, and when I go up to water the plants, it is nice to take a moment to sit on the wicker settee. There is no sound but the soft ticking of an old clock.
It seems appropriate.