I started calling my mom Mutti when I was in 9th grade and began studying German. The affectionate nickname stuck. Even though Mutti and I didn’t have a lot in common, we were very close. Because she lived in the Midwest, we saw each other usually only once a year. But we had adventures when we were together. Adventures that made happy memories.

Mutti died in 2018, one day before Easter. She was 90. I talked to her nearly every day for many years. She was generous and opinionated and active and loving. So her death left a large hole in my heart and my everyday life. For no reason I can think of, recently I have been missing her acutely. I talked to her yesterday while walking through my garden, telling her recent highlights in my life. Tonight, when the evening cooled off, I put on a sweatshirt of hers. Made me feel closer to her.

Today’s photo shows Mutti, my dog Shadow (also no longer with us), and ME, taken in 2017. We were celebrating my birthday - Mutti’s appearance was a surprise arranged by my brother. I don’t know what awaits any of us after death, if anything. But I do like to think about Mutti experiencing some wonderful existence I can’t imagine.