"My mother was always writing me notes. She slipped them to me whenever she dropped me off somewhere. I never understood this, since anything she has to say she could have said right then and saved herself the paper and the awful taste of the anvelope glue.
I think the first note was on my first day in kindergarden in 1954. What was I, five years old? The schoolyard was filled with kids, shrieking and running around. We approached, me holding my mother's hand, as a woman in a black beret formed lines in front of the teachers. I saw the other mothers kissing their kids and waling away. I must have started crying.
"What's the matter?" my mother asked. "Don't go." "I'll be here when you come out." "No." "Its okay. I'll be here." "What if I can't find you?" "You will." "What if I lose you?" "You can't lose your mother, Charley."
She smiled. She reached inside her jacket pocket and handed me a small blue envelope.
"Here," she said. "If you miss me really badly, you can open this."
She wiped my eyes with a tissue from her purse, then hugged me goodbye. I can still see her walking backwards, blowing me kisses, her hair swept up above her ears. I waved goodbye with the letter. It didn't occur to her, I guess, that I was just starting school and didn't know how to read. That was my mother. It was the thought that counted."
