Sunday, January 6, 1980.

Mother and I had very little in common . . .

—Albert Camus, The Stranger.

I had just turned twenty-seven on December 23. I was on

Christmas break, home in Philadelphia from my first semester of
law school in Spokane. In the afternoon, my mother, whose
name, by the way, was Sophie, drove me to the airport for my
return flight to Washington State. It was between two and four
o’clock. We listened—actually, it was I who listened (my mother
had no interest in classical music)—to the weekly Philadelphia
Orchestra concert broadcast on the car radio. I recall the Strauss
oboe concerto—music at once austere and memorably haunting.

It was the last time I saw my mother. She died a few days later. I
don’t know the exact day. She died unexpectedly in her sleep. I
suppose it could have been Tuesday night or Wednesday
morning. I always think of the opening line of Albert Camus’
novel, The Stranger, which I read in Mrs. Miller’s tenth grade
French class. Aujourd’hui maman est mort. Ou peut-être hier. Je ne sais
pas. “Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday. I don’t know.”