Today is the fifth anniversary of my mom's death. Despite my desire for it to be otherwise, I can still remember that day quite clearly. Of course that is always the case with any event outside of normal routine, isn't it? The death of a loved one is especially deeply branded into the soft flesh of memory.
Last January, Jeanine and I hid a letterbox in the park around the corner from my mom's old house. Unlike the first letterbox I hid in my mom's honor, this one is still in place, or at least it was on January 5th, which is the last time it was found by a letterbox hunter. Check out the clue here.
Earlier that day, I had provided some snakes for a photoshoot up in Oakland. It wasn't until I'd driven home from Oakland that the phone rang and I got the bad news. Pictures from that day ended up on the cover (as well as an interior spread) of Decibel magazine. This issue, to be exact.
That was the worst of bad days. Today is much more routine. Laundry is being done as I type. In fact, I think it's time to go put it in the dryer. Then, maybe I'll read a bit more. I'm reading Robert Aickman's account of his time with the Inland Waterways Association, which was formed to help save England's abandoned and endangered canal system during the mid-twentieth century. Thanks goes out to my brother for giving it to me for Christmas. I think my mom would have liked it too. She was always surrounded by more books than she would ever have had time to read, even if she'd lived to see 100. I know the feeling. We never do fall far from the tree.
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