Today marks a hard to comprehend dozen years since I lost my beloved mother, and in what can only be seen as an act of God, she reappeared to me late yesterday evening in the most loving and profound way.

I have been in the process of downsizing, selling online some of my overflowing collection of books and collectibles. A dear friend has been helping me with the listings, photographing and storing many of the books I will sell. Late last evening I called him to inquire about the publication date of a particular book I was currently writing the listing for and which he now had in his possession. The book “Norman Rockwell Artist and Illustrator”  was one I long treasured, but this massive, oversized Harry Abram’s book seemed impractical in my life now. It had been long and well-loved and I reluctantly decided to sell it.

As my friend began checking on whether this was a First Edition, he suddenly spied an inscription in the book long forgotten to me. That I didn’t remember that, surprised me. That it revealed itself at this moment, didn’t.

It was a loving inscription from my mother who had given it to me for Hanukkah in 1971, when I was 16. I adored Norman Rockwell and aspired to be an illustrator.

Now seeing her familiar handwriting,  and her loving words of encouragement, both so familiar in my life, it felt fresh and relevant and meant for me still, today.  As though she needed to remind me she still believes in me as an artist and is eternally surrounding me with love.

Suffice to say, I took that book off the market. It is not for sale. The inscription is priceless. As is the love I  received my entire life from this empathic, loving, kind, and oh so supportive woman I was blessed to call my mother.