I was at a local laundromat this cold January evening, because my dryer is broken. While the dryers spun, I was reading the last of Dean Koontz’ FRANKENSTEIN series. I’ve been on a Koontz kick as of late.
At a table near me, a woman who appeared to be a few years younger than me sat with her mother. The daughter was reading aloud to her mother. I wasn’t eavesdropping, but I heard the mention of Elvis Presley and the name “Stormy”, and I immediately recognized she was reading one of Dean Koontz’ ODD THOMAS books.
I’m a writer, so I am always interested in what people are reading. I frequently initiate conversations with strangers based on what they are reading.
The daughter explained that this was “one of the things” they did together. She would read books to her mom.
This struck an emotional chord in me. It got me thinking about my mom. This June will make 31 years since my mom passed away at what now seems so young… she was 60.
I have always been a writer, but my mom never got to read anything I have written as an adult; since I’ve finally gotten serious about honing my craft.
I told the women how it blessed me to see them sharing that, and I got choked up as I explained about my mom, and how she never got to read my writing.
“She has read it, just that you didn’t know it.” The daughter assured me.
I miss her. All the years have not lessened that.
In memory of Betty Lee Mattice Jan 31, 1924 – June 6, 1984.