My mom, Virginia Tomlinson, died a year ago today. The schedule of my book tour happened to send us down to my home ground in south Georgia over the weekend, and so on the drive back home we stopped by the cemetery in Brunswick. I hadn’t been down since the funeral. Her grave marker was in place, clean and solid, next to my dad’s.
She got to read an early draft of the book. She liked it except for two things. One, there are too many cuss words. Two, if she had known I drank so much in college, she wouldn’t have sent me any money. (Totally fair.) I wish she could’ve been around for these past couple of weeks, as the book has landed out in the world, and so many people have told me how much they enjoyed reading the parts about her. She would’ve gotten a kick out of that.
I go back out on the road this week, and I know one thing will happen: Every time I get to a new place, and every time I get back home, my reflex will be to pick up the phone and call her, to tell her I made it there all right. I don’t know how long it’ll be before that reflex fades. I hope it never does.
— TT