Stories are Gifts

I wish my mother had lived longer. I wish I knew more of her story. Marjorie died of breast cancer when I was a teenager, and that loss defined me for a long time. She had big brown eyes and chestnut hair. A real New York City girl, she had been a buyer for Saks Fifth Avenue and Bonwit Teller. Her fingers were long and her hands were soft when she turned her palm to check my forehead for a fever.