Mom, it's me.

Writing you again from up here.

I am on my way to see one of the Meghan's you told me you sent. She developed an incredible grief processing model and is sharing it with a group of us in DC.

I think you will get a kick out of this. Because I am your daughter, much thought about what to wear to a Saturday work slash, proud-of-your-friend event rolls around in my mind.

I lay out a new blazer. As I rustle in the night I think about those pink shoes from Madewell. Also the old chunky black Gucci loafers (buy well, buy once you taught me!).

I have to wake at 4 am to shower and blow dry. Alex is sweet enough to score this flight with frequent flier miles and he drives me to the Westchester airport, so close to home.

I am waiting to board and have newly purchased water and mints. I have a book of essays called, Listen To Your Mother, a friend shared. She is a Jersey girl named Kathy Curto. Her essay is about missing her Mom in the A&P and artichokes.

So I am boarding group 8 and petite brown hair…