Funny how working on a memoir can trigger memories. It’s as if writing about my life events fertilizes the soil of my soul, opening my mind and heart to stimuli that brings new memories to bloom.

With the first notes of the melody, I was whisked back to a time when I was maybe twelve years old. Back to Fairfield, California. Back to my living room with the green shag carpet and the gold tweed sectional where I sat and listened to my mom practice that very song in preparation for a performance with the community theater, The Belfry Players.

I was in awe of my mother’s voice. Though at twelve, I’m not so sure I knew the meaning of the word, “sultry,” as I think about her voice now, I would describe it as sultry, yet sweet and full of longing. And there was no better song for her to spotlight the characteristics of her voice that “Bésame Mucho.”

So, I asked her what the lyrics meant. What I most remember was the translation of the title: Kiss Me Much.

Oh, yes. Longing. In the words of the song, the way my mother’s voice surrounded me, I knew my she felt the longing, and I felt it, too.

She must have missed my father, who spent so much time away on his Air Force trips. Seeing my mother’s longing throughout much of my childhood, I sometimes wonder if it planted a seed of longing in me, too — a perennial flower that blossomed, died and blossomed again, many times throughout my life.

Through much of my childhood, we all missed my dad when he was away. We longed for his return, when everything at last, would be right with my mom and right with our world.