Here's a thing about the death of your mother, or anyone else you love: You can't anticipate how you'll feel afterward. People will tell you; a few may be close to right, none exactly right.

Thanksgiving without tension is like a Thanksgiving without turkey. It can be done, but it is not the norm.

Chicago is constantly auditioning for the world, determined that one day, on the streets of Barcelona, in Berlin's cabarets, in the coffee shops of Istanbul, people will know and love us in our multidimensional glory, dream of us the way they dream of San Francisco and New York.

The soul-sucking activity of TV-watching feels better when it is done with other souls.

TV happens. And once it's happened, it's gone. When it's gone, you move on, no tears, no tantrums, no videotape

I couldn't have foreseen all the good things that have followed my mother's death. The renewed energy, the surprising sweetness of grief. The tenderness I feel for strangers on walkers. The deeper love I have for my siblings and friends. The desire to play the mandolin. The gift of a visitation.

Be nice to your siblings. They are your link to the past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.