When I was college, I bet that most of the calls from my mother occurred when Michael Jordan was playing. She would say, "Michael's hot!" or "Michael's on fire!" I would get to a TV as soon as possible to watch MJ ablaze.

At home, Mom and I enjoyed playing the adjective game when Jordan was on the tube. With every mind-bending shot that Michael hit, we would give colorful descriptions of his exhibition. By the third quarter, Mom would stutter, sputter, and declare herself speechless. By the fourth quarter Mom would be faking heart attacks on the couch.

In 1993 Mom passed away unexpectedly while in Germany with Dad. This was the toughest year of my life. I felt that I had left a lot unsaid between Mom and I.

Jordan retired shortly after, in the prime of his career, following the death of his father. This was another blow to me. Michael's exploits (which Mom and I so enjoyed) were removed from my life. The shared experience was gone. In a way, it seemed like I had lost Mom again.

A year and a half later, Michael staged a comeback for the ages, winning three more championships. I really got a kick out of his comeback, but I no longer longed to play the description game with Mom.

Mom taught English at my high school. She always encouraged my writing and thought it was great. In high school I either didn't care or didn't believe her. By the time of Jordan's comeback, I was writing every day.

Poetry had become my passion and I was deeply grateful that Mom had fanned that spark - my descriptive powers I got from my mother.

CW's hot!

CW's on fire!

I can almost see Mom faking a heart attack on her heavenly couch.