When I think of you, Mom, I think of your great spirit, your flair and your sense of perfection. Remember how you always said, If you’re going to do something, you might as well do it right? I do. It’s become something of a mantra for me.

You’ve done many things right, Mom, but nothing more right than the huge doses of love you gave me, sweeping away all sorts of debris.

And then there’s your style. I combing the basement closet for those wonderful, full, romantic skirts you used to wear in the 1940s and 50s. Though I was never as thin as you were, I loved the feel of them when I wore them—Bohemian, old-fashioned, like a girl in a song. Yes, you certainly have style.

But I think my favorite memory of you (beyond hitching with me to Cannes when I was sixteen) was when you joined me in Washington for a peace march during the Vietnam War. Yes, it meant that I couldn’t go on the bus with my friends, but I was so proud! I had a mother who cared enough for peace to go to a demonstration. I still am proud to think that you would send yourself into that fray, with the scraggly group that demonstrators always are.

You’re the best, Mom!