Dear Mama,

Last night, you would have been really proud of me. You always loved when I tried new things or visited new places. You enjoyed life in a way that is somewhat rare in my busy city life. I don't see many people around me who enjoy it the way you did. But I did last night, and I wanted so badly to call and tell you about it.

It's been just over a year now since you died, and I still get the urge to call you. I don't start to call you and then have to stop myself, but rather I think, "I really need to tell her about this and I can't." Maybe this is where the god thing comes in for people. It makes them feel as if there is still an open line of communication, however indirect or one-sided. They may not get a response or any give and take, but instead it's like they are sending emails to to someone who never answers. But somehow, you know they are read.

I guess that sounds awful to me. I don't know that it would offer me much more comfort.

Speaking of email, it sort of rules me life. Well, the internet generally. I work for a dotcom, and I write, and I'm a twenty-something in 2012. Everything I do is online. But last night was screen-free.

P and I went kayaking.

You have known since the first time I visited New York City that I wanted to live in an urban area. You told me that after the first time you brought me to Chicago, you knew you'd lost me to it. And if it's possible, I became further entrenched last night as P and I paddled down the Chicago River. The sun was setting over us, making gold out of the skyscraper glass above us. We saw wealthy people in yachts, and their condo buildings with docks right on the river. We saw the grit and grime as we traversed under old bridges. And as we rounded a bend I saw this:

I took this photo in 2010 on an architecture tour, with you. You were in town for my college graduation and we ventured out onto the cold May day. You and I loved this house and  you said that when I wrote the "great American novel" I could buy it and put you up. 

I saw this again last night and I remembered all of the traveling you did, the scary new things you tried, and I was glad to realize that I'd perhaps gotten more from you than my 5'2" frame and curly hair. I wondered how you never seemed depressed when your health took away some of these things for you--and then wondered if maybe you were, but that you hid it from me. 

I don't know if any of your health problems will be hereditary, but I think of your early life, before me, and how you tried to do it all. Maybe I'll take that advice.