A few glimpses of mum that come to mind are these:
That there was always a blanket laid on the living room floor when dinner was a picnic in February, when Narnia was read by the fire, on the floor where we learned to read.
The smell of her room when she is getting ready (that smell of eye liner pencils and palettes of eyeshadow and blush). I would peak in, slightly mesmerized by the process and also her grace.
Clamouring out of the pool exhausted, dripping, she was dry, and gathered me in her lap.
Amy Grant blaring when she would mop the kitchen, 90's hair in full swing and in a scrunchie, windows open, "ask me just how much I love you, you are starlight, I'm Galileo." And also: years later, going in to Chapters and mum returning Amy Grant's memoir because it was just that boring.
In the few months after school was done and I lived at home, our sweet morning ritual, drawn out cups of coffee, how could we have so much to say?
And all of the times I have been quiet because of maybe doubt or embarrassment, fear, she always knows, and always calls. How did you know?
"I always know. You lived in me."