By the time she grew me up enough to send me off to war, the toll of ten kids were plainly evident.
Her teeth were shot, her hair had yellowed and her legs were a lumpy, painful, blue from varicose veins.
She wore a housecoat twenty four seven and never left our crowded, chaotic apartment.
On the rare occasion she would venture out, she would use my father’s tweed overcoat and an old kerchief.
It was usually a cigarette run because the kids were in school.
It was a heartbreaking sight.
But her spirits were always high and her sense of humor was devilish.
She loved music and a good high ball.
If anyone had a reason to bemoan their plight, it was her.
But not my girl, she was one in a million.
I miss you, Nora,
Love, Bobby
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