“I looked up. Mom looked down at me with the compassion/practicality combo that was her trademark.”
“She looked up at me, her eyes large with compassion, with understanding of the solitude and incivility of grief.”
“My mom beat me up," I informed my reflection. It looked back sympathetically.”
“I had my hair in a ponytail and looked my trademark exhausted.”
“She was looking at the cab, looking right through me, and I knew that she was curious because she’d seen A.J. talking to me. Which, to her, looked an awful lot like A.J. was talking to himself. “Say, I gotta run, mom, I’ll call you later,” I instructed the kid, and then pretend to hang up your phone.”
“I hope I'm never a mom. But if I am, I'll make damn sure my kids look up to me.”