“Mother Teresa would NOT think you’re funny”

That’s what my mom, Diana, said about the header on my “One Funny Mother” website when it first launched in 2010. I wanted the header to have some quotes for legitimacy, since I wasn’t ACTUALLY legitimate. I was in my “fake it til you make it” phase and didn’t have any credits or accolades so I made some up. Not wanting anyone to think these were REAL, I decided to attribute them to famous dead people I admired.

I’d always loved Abraham Lincoln and, my son, Dean had recently dressed as “Abraham Lincoln/Vampire Slayer” for Halloween, so he was at the top of my list. Twelve years of Catholic School cemented Mother Teresa’s spot on my coveted header, just above my name.

Lincoln’s quote read:

Mother Teresa’s quote:

To clarify: Abe and Terry did not say these things.

I figured that was obvious.

Since they were dead.

As a comic this seemed like a funny, subtle nod acknowledging my lack of ACTUAL credits. Di saw it different and that’s when I got the call.

“What’s up with this website you’re building?” she blurts out, when I answer the phone.

“Oh, you like it? I just picked out the colors and I’m still working with the webguy…”

“What’s up with these quote you got on here?”

It took a second to register what she was talking about since I was more concerned about the actual content than these silly quotes.

“Oh, you mean Abe and Mother Teresa? Yeah, did you like that? I just added those.”

Silence filled the space between us.

“They didn’t say this,” she blurts out, like Abe and Terry are standing next to her and she’s defending their honor.

“I know they didn’t say it, Mom. It’s a joke.”

“What’s so funny about it, if they didn’t say it?”

“I don’t know, Di!” I shot back, my mind whirling, wondering if this is the whole reason she called me. “I don’t have any ACTUAL quotes so I made these up. They’re funny. That’s it.”

“But it’s NOT funny. Abraham didn’t say this,” she corrects me.

“Of course, he didn’t say that, Diana. Number one he’s dead. Number two, I’ve never met him. And number three…it’s a joke. The whole thing is a joke.”

Starting to mellow a bit, she concedes, “Well, I guess if you think people are going to know it’s a joke.”

“I’m pretty sure they’ll know Di,” I take a beat, “you, know, cause he’s dead.”

I change the subject, happy this situation is diffused when she chimes in one last time, “Well, eh, Lincoln can stay up there, but Mother Teresa has to come down.”

“What?”I whisper.

“Mother Teresa, she didn’t say that.”

Here we go again.

“Diana! I know she didn’t say that!” my voice began to rise, “That’s the point. They’re dead, I’m funny and I’m a loser with no credits- End of story.”

“Yeah, but you got her saying, “She’s the sh*t” and she would NEVER say that, so take it down.” I could feel her crooked, Italian finger pointing at me through the phone.

“I’m not taking it down, Diane,” I kick out, in a low defiant whisper. “You don’t know if she would have said that or not! Maybe if she saw me do stand-up she would have said it.”

“She would NEVER go see your stand-up!” she roars, suddenly evangelical.

“Oh, re-ally Diana” I goad, “maybe Mother Teresa LOVED stand-up!” I snap back.

Indignant and Italian, I can hear her head move side to side as she says, “You think Mother Teresa had time to go see STAND-UP!?”

“I don’t know what she did between miracles, Diana!” (Now, even I know I sound delusional) “I think if Mother Teresa had some down time and got to know me a little bit, she would think I was funny.”

“No, she wouldn’t!”

“Oh! I think she would. And I think she would think I was HILARIOUS!

Without skipping a beat, she said the worst possible thing you could say to a mildly, funny, up-and-coming, Catholic comedian.

“Mother Teresa, would NEVER think you were funny!!!”

Diana cut me deep.

“I have to go,” I relented.

I didn’t take it down but Diana and I were able to move on.

This instance aside, my mom has supported my stand-up career for 24 years. When I recently decided to join Substack, my first post was sharing memories of my dear friend, Sally, who recently passed.

I asked my mom if I could read it to her, before I shared it here. She listened intently while driving and when I finished she thought for a moment.

“That was beautiful,” she began. I nodded in appreciation, looking out the window.

“Now, I know you’ve been taking all these classes and you’re working on your writing the last few years.”

I turn my head towards her thinking, Where is this going?

“Your descriptions are wonderful. I feel like I’m in the room. It’s all real thought out,” she continued.

I squint my eyes, giving the road a side-eye.

“But”, she takes a beat, “it’s too much. You’re just saying too much.”

I take a breath and slowly confirm, “Sooooo, it’s good.

“Oh, Absolutely. Very compelling.

“And..and it’s descriptive. You can see all of it. You’re in the room.”

“Dean, it’s like I’m there.”

I pause a moment, confused, “So, you just want….less of that.”

“YES!” she turns to me, her eyes wide.

She then goes on to tell me about a speaker she just saw at her Senior Lunch Bunch, at St. Maria Goretti Church. The man was a history buff who came to speak about the 250th anniversary of America. She told me he spoke for an hour and “all he said was facts”, to which I replied, “That’s what history is."

She lamented how he could have made it more interesting and, more pertinent to our conversation, he could have “tightened it up”.

“He was real boring,” she finished.

“So, let me get this straight,” I clarify, “Are comparing my eulogy speech to a presentation of last 250 years of America History and saying I should cut it in half, so I don’t bore people?”

“I’m just saying, he probably didn’t think he was boring either.”

I politely thanked Diana for the feedback and explained when I do HER eulogy, it would be thirty seconds long and only include events that happened last Friday. I want to keep it tight.

My mom loves my stand-up but, for some reason, when I write things and read them to her, she’s got a lot of thoughts. I’m sure she’s going to email me with corrections on this piece, but I know she does it out of love.

So, I know three things.

I know my mother loves me.

Abe Lincoln died laughing from my jokes.

And Mother Teresa thinks I’m the sh*t.

Amen.

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“Mother Teresa would NOT think you’re funny”

That’s what my mom, Diana, said about the header on my “One Funny Mother” website when it first launched in 2010. I wanted the header to have some quotes for legitimacy, since I wasn’t ACTUALLY legitimate. I was in my “fake it til you make it” phase and didn’t have any credits or accolades so I made some up. N…

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I’m speaking specifically of Jacqueline and myself but if I were taking bets, odds are…you did, too.

I want to be honest about crying during this process of moving to New York.

I’ve gotten so many lovely notes from friends and confused family members all sending well wishes on my next, brave adventure. Many expressed admiration for my spunk and drive, which is appreciated but feels undeserved. Packing this week, I was excited, felt a bit throw-up-ey and a ton of questions went through my mind.

What am I doing? WHO does this? (No one is the answer, by the way.) And why can’t my brain work like other people?

I can think of a million reasons to NOT be here. This not what adults do. I’m over 50 and there’s probably zero opportunities here. And, there are much more responsible ways to make a living. But there’s really only one reason to really do it - I never got a chance to try.

I’m starting my morning with homemade pumpkin bread.

Later, I’m going to clean the bathroom and kitchen.

Tomorrow, I’m going to figure out how New York trains work.

And, I’m positive I’m going cry during at least two of the above.

I’m going to remind myself - you can be brave and cry at the same time. Doing scary things, doesn’t mean you don’t cry. Maybe instead of hiding our cries, we tell people about them followed by the amazing thing we accomplished BECAUSE of our cry. Maybe crying is the ultimate sign of growth, not weakness.

I cried an entire year during and after my divorce. I couldn’t imagine my life outside of what I was living, and the life I was living wasn’t even GOOD. Crying was my path out.

I’m going to take a gamble and say you probably cry everyday anyway, so why not try to move towards the thing YOU’RE most scared of? Who knows what you can discover about yourself?

Side Note: I woke up this morning to an amazing number of NEW subscribers and supporters. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

You make a girl think she might be saying something worth listening to.

And, it makes her want to cry.

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Yes, it’s my birthday month (no one asked but it’s important).

Yes, I’m turning 54 in two weeks and it’s in my crawl.

Yes, I’m feeling a bit stuck professionally.

Yes, I did the right thing putting my kids first and my career second.

And, no, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Buuuuuut……part of me wonders. What if?

I started doing stand-up when I turned 30, just after the birth of my daughter, Jacqueline.

I had two kids and was soon pregnant with my third, Brooke (aka Birdie). I worked in NY with some success -a regular spot at Gotham Comedy Club, a national hosting gig with Real Simple TV and I landed a few commercials but with three kids in tow and the 5 hour round-trip to NY, I just couldn’t keep it up.

Twenty-four years later, Jacqueline is doing stand-up, Dean is acting and Bird just started student teaching.

I’ve successfully launched three beautiful humans, I’m about to turn 54 and I find myself wondering, “What would happen if I tried?”

Asking myself this question has lead to some pretty interesting things - an Off-Broadway show, a board game, Grand Marshall of “Chardonnay Day” and a vibrant community of online (and now, real-life) friends.

Other times, this same question has led to some pretty dumb things as well.

But, no matter result…all the times I’ve put myself out there, it’s been exciting.

While I’m sure we can all agree, there aren’t a ton of 54 year old “break-outs” in the entertainment business, Jean Smart IS killing it at 75, so there’s hope.

The other side of the coin, I miss my kids.

I miss laughing with them, being annoyed by them and complaining about them.

A few weeks ago I took three trains just to sit on Jacqueline’s bed with her and Dean to just BE in their presence for 30 minutes. If not, I wouldn’t have seen them for a month and since I’m Italian, that’s just too long. Being in NY a few days a week allows me to sneak into some of their shows, try and get some stand-up spots in the city, take acting classes and start auditioning again. And, of course, be home enough to see Bird, my mom and Jason and his kids.

A few months ago, I was positive this was a good idea.

A week ago, I was excitedly picking out things for my BIG move.

As I pack up this morning, things feel different. Scary.

But that’s what doing something different looks like, right?

We’re supposed to do things that make us nervous, make our stomachs hurt and make us want to crawl back into bed.

But today, I chose danger. (And by danger I mean, how the F am I going to put my Koala Couch/Bed together, move all my shit and figure out how the trains work by 9am Friday for a warm-up gig I have in Manhattan)

The clock is ticking, so wish me luck!

Shits’ about to get real.

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I’m moving to NY, Brooklyn to be exact.

First things first- Jason and I are great. I’ll be staying in NY from Wednesday to Friday with the main purpose of visiting some comedy clubs, perhaps taking an acting class, attending some casting calls, watching my kids live their dreams and then heading home to curl up in my bed with Jason and the dogs.

There is a lot to say and no time now to elaborate because I move in tomorrow. Stay tuned for updates, watch me put my sofa bed together and probably cry because I have no idea how public transportation in NY works.

This isn’t forever. I’m taking it a day at a time and I turn 54 in two weeks. Let’s see what happens.

PS- My roommate (Jacqueline) already sent me an angry message.

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While this feels like an admission best shared at a weird “I collect old people” program held in a church basement, but I’m actually pretty proud of it.

I’ve collected old people for as long as I can remember. It all started with my grandparents. They were married for 47 years and had “1930s love,” the kind kindled in youth, cemented during wartime and endured for decades.

During my teen years, I added my Aunt Angie, my piano teacher, Mrs. Knight, and my very sophisticated, Aunt Rose. They taught me to laugh with abandon, dedicate my life to a craft and how to be fancy.

I don’t remember ever really choosing to start my “old people” collection. It just happened. I met these women and admired them SO much, I just knew I had to have them in my life.

By the time I was twenty-one and competing in Miss New Jersey, I wasn’t looking for any more “old people” (which, by the way, all these women were probably in their 40s and 50s, but I was in my twenties and thought everyone was “old,” so- I was a bit of an a-hole). Because the pageant was run by good people, all dedicated to helping young women, adding more old people to my collection was easy.

It wasn’t until I stumbled my way into the final slot of the Miss New Jersey Pageant in 1994 that I saw the real prize, the ultimate collectible. A woman who, if you won Miss New Jersey, actually CAME with the crown. Her name was Sally Johnston, and she was the “Official Traveling Companion” to Miss New Jersey. Sure, you could talk to her, ogle her from across the room at Miss New Jersey events, but she would never really be “yours” unless you won.

She had a bright smile, wide eyes-that sought out the imperfect wonders of the world-and she always wore something with an angel on it. Her wrists held a stack bangles and bracelets that, along with the jingle ball in her pocket, emitted a telltale “Sally jingle” when she walked.

She was everyone’s cheerleader, she radiated love, and wherever she went…people gathered. After meeting her, I knew I wanted to be Miss New Jersey, I wanted to compete on the Miss America stage and I wanted Sally.

You can imagine my surprise the following year when I won. I looked around, feverishly, for my prize (Sally), only to find out she was NOT there and, instead, was attending the wedding of her youngest daughter, Amy. I was the ONLY Miss New Jersey in her fifty-three years of service she didn’t see crowned.

Our first meeting was a bit awkward. I was hosting the Ernst & Young Entrepreneur of the Year dinner. I had no idea what I was supposed to do and was clueless as to what Sally was there for. She rattled something off about holding my things, making sure I was safe and taking pictures. All of which sounded great until two hours later, when I was taking pictures with the award winners. One of the men drank too much, I was in a halter dress and I felt- what seemed like- someone licking my bare shoulder during the picture.

I stared at Sally, stunned, sure this fell under the “I make sure you are safe” category, but she was too busy laughing to stop the attack. I just stood there repeating, “Is someone licking me?” over and over while everyone laughed, and I remember thinking, “I don’t think this lady is very good at her job.”

Little did I know, laughter would bring us together, over and over, for three decades.

Sally and her husband, Whitey, now empty nesters, invited me to stay with them, and I became their unofficial “fourth” daughter. Like so many of the Miss New Jerseys, we spent hours talking about everything. What did I want to accomplish during my year of service? How could I learn to smile when I really just wanted to punch people? And how do you heal a body without even touching it? (She loved Reiki.)

She often spoke about angels and made everything seem magical and possible. The first time I visited her home, she introduced her cats, “BO” and “GO”. She then, coyly asked if I knew WHY she named them that. Without skipping a beat, she pointed to each and said, “That’s the Black One and that’s the Gray One, BO and GO,” and then she laughed and laughed. She was so wildly quirky and mystical that you just went along with whatever she said.

I was nervous about being Miss New Jersey and I wanted, so badly, to make a good first impression at appearances. When meeting people, I’d stand up straight, look them in the eyes and follow with a firm handshake. I was always slightly turned off when, after meeting Sal and I, people immediately turned to her and complimented how great she smelled.

EVERY TIME.

Her perfume was called “Jungle Gardenia,” which sounded like a dirty Harlequin novel, but it did smell fantastic and never failed.

“What are you wearing, Sally?” was always the first question after introductions, and I’d just roll my eyes. She’d, of course, jingle over to them, lean in, gently touch their arm and say with a big smile, “It’s Jungle Gardenia. You should get some.”

Then they’d be friends forever.

I could have been on FIRE and no one would have noticed me standing there. She was just magnetic, and everyone knew it.

While driving one morning, she told me the Jungle Gardenia manufacturer was no longer making her magic elixir.

I said something smart like, “Well, I guess you’re going to have to smell like a normal person and be ignored, like me now.”

“No,” she said, in confident denial, looking out the window, “I contacted the manufacturer and asked them for the formula.”

I was dumbfounded. This idea would never have dawned on me, but to Sally, this was a feasible option. She called them and simply explained that if THEY didn’t want to make it anymore, she would just make it in her basement.

In Sally’s mind, everything was possible. Surprisingly, they didn’t share the multimillion-dollar formula, but I’m positive she still tried to make it.

The truth is, she didn’t need a fancy scent to stand out.

At Miss America, I often invited her to sit with me and my fellow contestants for meals, and we would regale the table with stories of our travels. After we told them about my licking incident, everyone just kept repeating, “Is someone licking me?” throughout the week, but in a Southern accent, which somehow made it much funnier.

We were notorious for being late to our Miss America events. We’d been given two previous warnings and didn’t want to risk a third, so the next day, we left Epcot two hours before our scheduled appearance in the Magic Kingdom.

As we approached our stop, the monorail kept going. Apparently, it loops around the park and then comes BACK to the Magic Kingdom. We reassured each other, tried not to panic and arrived at the gates with 15 minutes to spare. We had plenty of time to get to the Grand Prix course for my photo shoot.

As we approached a Disney parade had shut down the street in front of us, so we found security and told them of our plight. They made it VERY clear they didn’t care, and no one was crossing that street anytime soon.

I looked over at Sal. No words were needed. We just knew—we were going to have to make a run for it.We crawled under the rope, dodged a dancing Goofy, pushed a small child and made it to the other side. As soon as we cleared the crowd, we saw there was nothing but open road ahead of us.

I yelled, “Hit it, Sal!” and we ran for our lives. I heard a “Woo-hoo!” eek out of her, and we were off.

“We’re doing it, Sal! We’re going to make it. I can see the track,” I squealed as I pointed. “Can you see it?” I yelled over my shoulder.

There was no answer.

“Sal!!” I screamed, turning to discover she was on the ground, about half a mile back.

“What the hell happened?” I yelled, my palms raised high in the air.

She slowly moved her arm in a forward-waving motion, “You go! Don’t wait for me! You’ll be late.”

That’s when this ridiculous scene officially turned into a slow-motion war drama. As I looked at the Grand Prix in the distance, then back at Sal, I faintly heard her yell, “Save yourself!”

I knew that day no woman would get left behind, so I ran back, threw her over my shoulders, like we were retreating from Normandy, and limped us both to the bridge overlooking the Grand Prix course, just as Miss New Mexico and Miss New York drove by smiling for the cameras. We were too late. Sal had bruises all over her legs, we got yelled at again and we laughed all night.

It was the best day ever.

As much as I loved our hilarious adventures, it was how Sally made people FEEL that made her special.

She had the amazing ability to make you feel like the most important person in the room. She was everyones best friend, and she referred to those she loved as “Honey”, which was everyone. Her uncanny ability for telling someone the truth, the WHOLE truth, even if it hurt was on full display the week I was giving up my title (crowning the next Miss New Jersey).

I expected the incoming class of contestants to be “in awe” of me, just as I had been with Michelle Sexton, the first Miss New Jersey I ever met. When Michelle walked into a room, everyone stopped talking, gazed up at her and just imagined the magical life she must be living.

I was halfway through my final week when I realized no one at the pageant was in awe of me. No one was stopping to gaze. No one thought I was magical. They were just like, “Hey Dena, can you get me a soda?”

It was an emotional time, and I remember going to Sally for comfort. I asked her why no one was looking at me. Why was no one in awe of me, like Michelle?

She thought for a moment, grabbed my hand and said, “Honey, they are in awe of you. It just looks a little different.”

Unconvinced, I continued. “But it doesn’t seem like awe,” I whispered. “They just keep asking me to get them chips.”

She shook her head, “You know, honey, You and Michelle are just different. Michelle was always done. Her hair was done. Her makeup was done. She always looked great, and people responded to that.”

She flashed her all-knowing, angelic smile at me and nodded, waiting for acknowledgment I’d received this powerful insight.

I leaned toward her, baffled and whispered, “But Sally…I am done. This is me. Done.”

Her head snapped back.

“Oh,” she said, confused, “Then, I don’t know what to tell you,” and she laughed hysterically and walked away.

I didn’t talk to her for a few hours after that.

(But she wasn’t wrong. My “done” is usually much less done than other peoples done)

Our 30-year relationship spanned our marriages, kids, a comedy career, divorce, empty nesting, death and finding a new love.

Last year, when asked to give the Miss America breakfast keynote celebrating volunteers—some with decades of service to the organization—I knew I couldn’t do it without Sal. She, Julie Barber (Miss New Jersey 2001) and I flew to Orlando and enjoyed a whirlwind weekend. They graciously set up all transportation, invited us to the VIP parties and treated us like queens. Upon arrival, I threw a “Miss America” sash on Sally and told everyone she was Bette Cooper, Miss America 1937.

In the middle of my speech, after raving about Sal a bit, I asked her to share a few words about her 53 years as a Miss America volunteer. She took the microphone and spoke of her love for the organization, the gratitude she had for the friendships she’d made and the bond she had with all the Miss New Jerseys she’d traveled with.

“They have all become like my family. I’ve gotten to know each and every one of them, and I love them all…” she said, and then whispered, “Well, maybe not all of them.”

I grabbed the microphone and held it til the audience stopped laughing.

“Okayyyyy…let’s get back to all the love,” I said, nudging her and slowly returning the mic back, giving her the evil eye.

She smiled and started again. “Well, I mean, they all became like my daughters. I loved them all.”

Then she turned and stared up at me again, “But I mean, some of them….not so much.”

Again, hysterics from the audience.

In that short amount of time, Sal made an impression. Everyone figured out why she was the queen of all things and they fell in love with her. As we wheeled her around the next few days, her newfound fame shown through as her adoring fans called out her name. She’d wave and yell, “Hi, Hon!” and it was perfection.

One of my fondest memories was when my daughters, Jacqueline and Brooke, started competing in the pageant. After the competition was over, Sally pulled them each aside to chat about how they felt about their experience, told them how great they did and how wonderful she thought they each were.

It was like a time capsule being opened and seeing myself twenty-five years earlier. I wondered how a woman could be so adept at supporting and connecting with young women…over the course of decades.

My daughters’ got to experience the magic of Sally and it was something special. My son’s experience with Sal is…a little different.

Whenever she stayed at the shore with us she’d sleep in my son, Deans’ room. One morning, he needed to grab some shirts, so he knocked on the door to see if he could enter.

Sally yelled a hearty, “Come on in”, but when he opened the door, she greeted him with just her pants and old-lady bra on.

“Whoa…Sal, why did you say come in?” he said, covering his eyes and backing up toward the door.

She thought it was hysterical and kept trying to hug him saying, “I love you, Honey.”

He ran away screaming, “That’s not helping, Sal. Please put a shirt on!”

We couldn’t stop laughing.

When I look back on our time together during my year—speaking at events, telling stories and dissecting the feedback from the audience—I know it’s where my comedy career began.

I still have my first “set list” with both my and Sally’s handwriting on it. As we drove around the stat, anytime we liked a new story I wrote…it was added to my list. When I started doing stand-up, seven years later, Sal was one of the first to come and cheer me on.

But of all the things Sally gave me, one piece of advice followed me long after our year together ended. It was what she said whenever one of my new harebrained ideas went awry.

My process was always the same. I would come up with some new idea, inevitably run into a million obstacles, get frustrated and want to stop.

Sal would say, “You know what your problem is, Honey? You’re frustrated because you’re a “way shower.’”

I had never heard the term before, so she explained.

“Most people, when they come to a split in the road, they go one way or the other. You’re a way-shower. You see things differently. You see a NEW way. You aren’t following someone else’s path; you are making your own. And everyone knows the first person on a path has a lot of work to clear that path for the people who follow. Keep believing in yourself, because you never know who’s coming behind you.”

That advice has guided me throughout my life and kept me on track, especially during my wildest adventures. It taught me to believe in myself and not to worry about following the pack and to keep speaking about things that mattered to me - motherhood, raising kids who learn a little differently, the heartbreak of divorce and being brave enough to start over again and find love again.

Because of Sally, there are fifty plus strong female voices in this world, making beautiful babies and changing the world in big and small ways.

In the past few years, some of my favorite old people have passed away, and with each passing, a piece of my heart dies.

My collection is slowly disappearing.

Selfishly, I wonder what happens when they’ve all left. Who will I look up to? Whose sage advice will I seek? Who will I call when something fantastic happens?

I’m 53 now, the same age Sally was when she and I met.

It dawned on me the other day that I’ve reached “collectible” age. I suppose if I’m lucky, someone will add me to their collection.

Hopefully, I’ve gathered enough wisdom, experienced enough heartache and lived on this planet long enough to realize that life isn’t about me. It’s about how much of yourself you give to others. That’s what Sally did.

I’m forever grateful to Sal’s family for sharing her with us. Hopefully, they know how many lives she changed, how many people who needed a substitute mom, friend, cheerleader, confidante and mystic in their lives- and Sal was there.

You may be wondering if you’re collectible. If you’re so giving, so selfless and so wise that people, not only listen to you but believe what you tell them. They believe they are good, their ideas are worth listening to and their dreams are worth pursuing because of you.

Like any good collectible, we can only hope our presence brings people joy, holding us close makes people feel safe and when we’re gone, the impact of our time together leaves an indelible mark on their hearts, they can just FEEL us rooting for them.

Like any good collectible, we can only hope our presence brings people joy, that holding us close makes them feel safe and that, when we’re gone, we leave an indelible mark on their hearts—so deep they can still FEEL us rooting for them.

Do you smell like Gardenias? Do you believe in angels? Do you even jingle? You may be one of the rare collectibles, like Sally. No matter your magic, never underestimate the value YOU bring to the world. People are watching the good you do, the power you exude when overcoming obstacles and the love you show when caring for others.

Sal would want you to know…you are a VERY valuable collectible.

I found an old voicemail from Sal on my phone last week.

“Hey Hon, it’s me, Sally. I just got your message. I don’t know why I didn’t see it yesterday. You know, you’re in my thoughts and prayers, and if there’s anything I can do to help out, you know I’m there. I know how hard a time this is for you, in so many ways, and I just want you to know I love you.”

It was CRAZY that she was consoling me, during THIS week. I looked at the date and saw she’d left the message was a few days after my dad died in 2022.

I think she wanted me to have it just for this moment. To be consoled by her…for her.

She’s an angel now, watching over those of us lucky enough to have known her. Her words will stay with me long after she’s gone and, hopefully, pass them on to the people who have “collected” me- enough times- that Sal’s legacy will live on.

I Love you, Honey.

Dena

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