Coming-of-age stories and moments are supposed to be for teenagers and boys whose testicles have barely dropped. Not for formerlies like myself. But, I keep having these coming of age moments since my Mom passed and I meet hard moments head on. Maybe they should be called coming-of-old-age stories.

Last week, I finally went to clear some of my Mom's stuff. Three floors and a cellar full of memories, moments and enough papers to fill at least four Got Junk trucks. Only managed to get to two rooms--kitchen and a bathroom. Made a minor dent in another room. Collected pictures. Found my daughter's artwork, her Big Foot award from when she learned to tie her shoes, and even my own paintings. A portrait of a lady done when I was six. Pretty detailed for a child. Can even remember when I did it, in Paris, while my mother typed her first novel.

Wondered down Memory Lane. Rolled through Nostalgia Alley. Ate the food that made me feel comfortable and remember moments with my Mom. Felt at peace, even comfortable in that house and its mound of students' papers, and copious notes for those next novels buried deep in the soul of an incredible spirit. And as I dug through and tossed my Mom's things away, it hit me-- I realized what it is I'm supposed to do with the rest of my life. Guess it's my calling to unearth hidden talent found in the souls of the creatives that darken my doorstep. Maybe that's always been my talent to be that fairy that waves a wand and poof--your dreams come true. Hell, I was the fairy in the first-grade play. Maybe that's the pit in my stomach I've been feeling since I got back from clearing my Mom's house. My house. My daughter's house. The house I left but never left me.

Fall's here. Time to get the wand and get to wavin'.