Mom was larger than life by virtue of her willpower. If she stared at a mountain long enough, I’m pretty sure one of two things would happen: her gaze would burn a hole right through it, or it would move. The original Wonder Woman, Mom was sending jokes to friends and family on the internet on the afternoon of her second mastectomy. Her philosophy was, “Shit happens; deal with it.”

That was her life. Shit happened, and she dealt with it. It’s been my experience that those who are good at dealing with shit get more shit than anyone else. It just keeps coming their way. And it did…. keep coming her way.

Three years ago today, Mom left this realm to be with Jim and the rest of the good Democrats in heaven. I’m forever grateful that she died before the Supreme Court overturned Roe vs Wade. My sister Karen and I made generous donations to Planned Parenthood in her honor. Mom was an advocate and defender of women and children. She was a constituent who put her energy and resources behind her candidate. As the family matriarch, she told everyone how to vote. When Joyce Ellis cast her ballot, it was multiplied by the number of grandchildren over voting age.

Mom loved nature. She enjoyed long walks and watching the birds in her backyard. She was an avid reader. She loved crossword puzzles; the more complex, the better. Mom was a logophile. To spare you having to reach for a dictionary, Mom loved words. She also loved arguing for its own sake. The oldest daughter of a Pentecostal preacher and a staunch and loyal feminist, she enjoyed nothing more than arguing Bible verse over the dinner table with my Grandpa Long. It may have sounded like a bitter disagreement to outsiders, but insiders didn’t fail to notice the sparkle in their eyes as father and daughter sharpened their tongues and aimed them at each other.

Mom was hilarious. She genuinely did not care what other people think. One of the most erotic videos I’ve ever seen was of Mom licking her ice cream spoon to accompany my sister Rhonda as Rhonda sang happy birthday to herself in the manner Marilyn Monroe used to serenade President Kennedy. Breathily caressing every word as they rolled off her tongue, Rhonda made me laugh till I snorted. Then Rhonda snorted. Then Greg snorted. There we sat like three little pigs, tears rolling down our cheeks, laughing hysterically while Mom ignored us, still licking her spoon.

I did my best to honor every one of your last wishes, one of which will remain in the vault until it’s buried with me. All I can say is, I can’t believe she made me do that, but that just goes to show you the strength of Mom’s willpower.

Happy Angelversary, Mama. We love and miss your physical presence, but we know you’re still with us in the many ways you’ve shown up for your loved ones. So far, my favorite is when you called Duston’s cell phone from your landline, which had been disconnected for over a year. The best part was not providing a button or slider for him to answer the call. He was beside himself when he called me at 5:30 a.m. to report what just happened. Duston took a screenshot of the phone number, or no one would’ve believed him. Boy, do I know how that feels.

You didn’t believe a lot of what I had to say until you got over there with Jim. I can’t blame you, as you were indoctrinated into your father’s belief system from your first breath. I congratulate you on how far you came, even if you couldn’t go as far out there as I did. I realize now when Adam died; I moved out of the world of Newtonian physics into the quantum realm, where the number of my friends and family members who could understand me — twelve years later still hasn’t exceeded the number of fingers on one hand.

I hope you like your chapter in Adam’s Gift, Mama Joyce. I did my best to portray you in your natural light. Any stories you don’t like, well, what can I say? You shouldn’t oughta done that. I can see you right now in my mind’s eye at Adam’s memorial service, poking me in the shoulder with your bony finger, hissing at me to get Rhonda down off the stage where she held the audience captive with stories about Adam. So loudly the entire room could hear you, you hissed, “She’s got on a new dress and a new pair of shoes and she’s going to talk all day. There are old people here, and they’re going to have to pee.” That’s my second favorite pee story in Adam’s Gift. Nate’s story in chapter 4 still holds that prize.

As you know, I waited until you died to write the book. You sure knew how to take the wind out of my sails once my belief system diverged from yours. I know you couldn’t help it; that’s just how it was. I forgive you. I know that you know differently now. I imagine you’re basking in the love of your friends and family as we remember you today. Somebody recently called me a little spitfire firecracker. It sounds like, in some respects, this spark didn’t fly too far from the flame.

I love you, Mama. You were truly one-of-a-kind.

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