4:44

One million years ago, or possibly 12 years ago, after Dad died, Mom suggested -- nay, demanded -- we all get together for Christmas. 

"But Mom, we don't get together for Christmas; we get together in the summer."

"We're getting together for Christmas."

Mom had spoken.

This was not that Christmas. 

This was Thanksgiving a few years ago. 

As you were.

Jane graciously volunteered to host at her lovely home in Chicagoland, and all the sisters and their wee chitlins made arrangements to get there.

Mistah and I, of course, planned to drive.

And Mom planned to drive too.

So the three of us decided to drive together, in what had been Dad's Lexie but now was Mom's Lexie. Three drivers, 12 or 13 hours, no problemo.

Photos are separate from my tale, as is now I hope eminently obvious.

Bill and I drove down to Mom's the night before and the three of us had ourselves a lovely time -- because of course we did: the three of us always had so much fun together -- and we decided we would leave at 5 am.

We went to bed early, and in the morning I was *trying* to sleep when I heard Mom and Bill yakking in the kitchen. I was like, "Guys! You said five! What are you doing?"

They both said, "We're awake, let's go."

"I'm not awake."

"Come on, let's go."

I got up, we poured coffee for ourselves, it was black as night out there -- well, it was night out there -- we got in the car, and Mom insisted on driving the first leg.

"Mom, why? It's nighttime; let one of us drive."

But once again, Mom had spoken.

Sigh. Mom.

Mom started driving, said, "Oh, let's see what time we're hitting the road . . . "

It was 4:44.

And so it began.

Mom and I have had a thing about 4:44 ever since. It's a magical time of day. It's just before happy hour -- well, for our strictly-5:00-pm-Mom it was just before happy hour; for me, happy hour had already begun. Ha.

Two selfies taken at the Dutch, both blurry. I blame poltergeists.

Fast forward to March 2020. Bill and I spoke to Mom the day covid shut the world down, that afternoon on March 16. When we said goodbye I said, "I'll call you tomorrow." "You don't have to." "I'll call you tomorrow, Mom. I'll call you at 4:44."

And Mom and I spoke at 4:44 every day ever since. 

Our far-apart covid-visit series . . . 

As I said at Mom's funeral -- sigh -- "our conversations weren’t always deep or impactful or profound: we talked about what we were going to have for dinner (of course), what we did that day, all the things. Mom was ready to get off the phone the moment she got on the phone, but I was dogged; I wanted details." 

I still have my phone set for 4:44 every day. And I toast Mom every time. If Mistah is home we hug, I either laugh or cry or keep chopping veggies or keep reading, and keep living life, because that's what we do. Happily and proudly.

We keep living life.

And I'm going to keep that alarm set on my phone for a long long time.

Happy 4:44, Mom.

We miss you, quite literally, every day.