Do you know how Virginia Woolf died? Sensing yet another bout of soul-crushing depression was upon her, she resolved to simply give in. She slipped on her overcoat, filled the pockets with stones, walked into a river and drowned herself.

A few weeks ago, my mother tried to do the same.

I say “my mother” with the loosest of meanings attached. That woman who tried to drown herself was not the woman who took my brother, sister and I apple picking every fall. Nor was it the woman who sang “Danny Boy” to me on the phone every night for the week I was away at camp. Or the one who came bolting down the street when I called from the neighborhood beach and asked, “Exactly how deep does a cut have to be before you need stitches…?”

No, no. My mom didn’t try to commit suicide.

So, really, I shouldn’t be so upset.

Except…I miss my mom.

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