As I approach the river in the fog a heron takes flight, dark winged angel. “Good morning, Mom.” I say. Since her death, I greet each heron and feel blessed by the sighting. Mom’s love of nature saved my life. When sun sparkles on saltwater and I feel the wash of waves, Jamie, my summer brother, is near. As teens, we surfed September breakers then collapsed onto the sand laughing always laughing. All my old boyfriends are dead (except for the one I live with.) Maurie, lifted his 6’4” frame into the boat like a wet otter, his homely face offset by a quick wit. His farm town roots were exotic to this suburban girl. He believed withdrawal would work. Good thing we broke up. John, a handsome bad boy, drove his dad’s T-bird. He was my first male obsession. He rose at Jamie’s funeral to hug me, share our grief for old times, old backseats old friends. Ann died last year. Forty years of friendship, knitting and laughter. Each project and strange new style prompts me to call her. In New Mexico, when Linda decided to drive - Ann and I jumped in the back seat. I am still laughing.