Notes my mother wrote by Barrie Neller

One fell from an old text book as if it had been waiting for me. "Honey ... give your teacher a kiss today. I put in an extra pickle so you can pucker up!" It reminded me I had not yet grieved. As the black son of an unmarried white woman, I could easily have become the worst of what people assume. My mother saw to it I did not. Every day my lunch box would carry a message from her. Smiling with release the tears flow freely. As a teen I remember reading this one from my gym bag: "Son ... love is painted in every color."

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