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The Mother Vanishes

My latest piece is up at "The Broad Street Review."  The link is here:


It opens like this:

“Now I am an orphan,” the novelist Mark Harris famously began an essay in 1963. He was 40 then. I’m nearly 70 – and the same has just come true for me.

My mother died at 99, some 20 years after my father– after her sister and brothers and their spouses, and my other aunts and uncles and theirs, and all but a scattering of friends, whose number one hand can count. She survived two world wars and the Great Depression, the coming of radio, TV, computers, the atomic bomb, the Salk vaccine, refrigerators, microwaves, the NBA and the NFL.