not much, just enough

I am heading home from a work trip, miles from the ground and caught between time zones, demurely wiping my eyes in a way that can preserve what is left of the mascara I applied that morning, revisiting a conversation from the conference’s beachside happy hour. As a person who sits alone and taps at a computer, I’m always fascinated by other people’s work, but these conference attendees were all women in the funeral industry, and while the happy hour was a chance for them to cut loose and enjoy themselves, I was unfortunately in attendance and asking them things like so what’s the strangest request you’ve ever gotten from someone?

A woman who has spent decades in the industry, who could only be described as stately, told me that nothing was really strange, but that some things were certainly unique, and then told me about a woman who, before her mother was embalmed, asked for her heart to be removed and cremated.

Like celery, people are mostly water, and I wondered aloud how much ash one could possibly get from a cremated human heart.

Not much at all, the funeral director confirmed, holding up two fingers to illustrate, but enough.

The story is too beautiful for me to bear, in the moment and in my recollection.

I almost always cry on airplanes, and why wouldn’t I? We are hurtling through the air at unnatural speeds, sharing a liminal space and temporary community with strangers we are unlikely to ever see again but could just as well die beside. When the man next to me reclines his seat and turns on his playlist to rest his eyes, I am struck by the easy and unselfconscious intimacy, how he will drift off to sleep just inches from a woman whose name he does not know, his forearm brushing hers. I am less enchanted with the unselfconsciousness with which the other men (and I’m sorry to report they are almost always men) around me remove their shoes, as though the plane is their living room and they don’t want to track in anything from the outside world.

When I am leaving town, and by default my family, it’s almost immediately when the plane lifts off from the runway and I can physically see the distance forming between me and the ones I love. If they notice, my seatmates have never let on. Pay no attention to the woman staring wistfully out of the window, sniffling loudly.

It’s not that I feel guilty for leaving, it’s that I feel guilty for what a bitch I’ve been up until this moment, gutted by the moments of impatience and frustration I’ve left in my wake. If that were the last time I saw them, what would they remember? That I baked them a half-birthday cake every year for their half-birthday, or that I threatened to throw their iPads in the trash if they argued with each other again?

Years ago, when my first book was published, the mother of an ex-boyfriend wrote me a letter. She was the kind of mother with unbreakable Corelle dishes and a reliable hairstyle that never changed in the many years I dated her son, and I missed her more than I ever did him.

She liked my book, she told me, “as much as any other,” a small piece of high praise from a woman I remember as an avid library-goer who read piles of books while her children were at school. She closed her letter by telling me that she could tell that I was a good mother because I am -- and I’ll never forget this -- demonstrative with my love.

This is the kind of compliment that means something when it comes from a woman who made pudding on the stove and served it in small bowls as an after-school snack. What is love if not demonstrative? What demonstrates love more than pudding?

But in these plane-cry moments, the hours I have spent making pudding or hot-gluing dioramas or crouched across from a small child who needs eye contact and hand-holding to poop in a public toilet matter not. How many times have I told my husband that I am not cut out for this job, that I don’t know what I’m doing and should have been satisfied with my position as Aunt? How many times have I been distracted or dismissive or frustrated when I should have been gentle and understanding and nurturing?

Which one of my children would want to pull my rotten heart from my chest as a keepsake? Well, what mother wouldn’t pull it from her chest – still beating, a la Temple of Doom – and hand it over willingly? What mother hasn’t already, in a thousand tiny ways?

The next day — Mother’s Day, ha! — I carefully sliced uniform sheets of paper for an urgent flip book emergency and burned my fingers on the hot glue gun to finish a diorama that should have been done a week ago. I tucked in our youngest children and said what I say to them every night as they drift off too sleep: I love being your mom.

It might not be much at all, but it’s enough.

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❤️ Last day for the The Tarte Cosmetics kit sale…7 products for $77! It’s a good time to stock up or try something new (and if you don’t need 7 products, go in with a friend/sister/daughter!) I’m using it to try the XL Tubing Mascara in brown and the Shape Tape Blur Concealer stick (both avail in the kit!)

❤️ I’m working on my SPF roundup but trust that Supergoop will be on it. This is their ONLY 20% off sale (last year I fell for a spoof website and had my identity stolen…and linked to it on IG. PROMISE THESE LINKS ARE REAL!). We keep a jug of this on the counter all year round for daily use. It feels like lotion and smells nice, and SPF is for ALL YEAR ROUND! I use this on my part (and over my makeup). I know everyone loves the unseen sunscreen but I find it pills under my makeup, sorry!

❤️ For the girls with gazooms (can’t relate!) Sophie has influenced many of you to try her favorite bras/bralettes. The bundles are a great deal!

❤️ The At Home Memorial Day Clearance sale has great deals in general, but color lovers should know about these yellow chairs, these planters and this outdoor tray from Oh, Joy!

You can join me for a Bad Vibes Only book club with the Society of Working Moms on June 14th!I looooove speaking about mental health, grief and other hilarious topics. You can email

bkane@apbspeakers.orgif you want to bring me to your event or organization.