Anne Bobo--my mother--died on November 4th, 2012 at 5:29 PM. She was 63. To most of the folks who knew her casually, she was an artist, an educator, and an historian. I am not here to commemorate her career; it ended with her, and her end robbed us of things more important than her professional life.

I want to talk about her laughter, her sense of mischief, and the joy she took from simple pleasures.

My father and I have hundreds of pictures of the three of us together, overlooking canyons and oceans, standing at the bases of mountains and the edges of plains. In that way, she remains with us: a vision at twenty-two, a frazzled yet patient mother in her 40s, a warm and determined survivor into her 60s. Circumstances, careers and clothes changed across that period, but the one constant is also the only thing truly lost to us: her laughter.

As a child playing in the break room at Mercer County Community College, I heard a coworker tell my mother that he wanted her in the audience of every play he put on; her laughter was better than any paid shill. She had a way of turning an entire room into co-conspirators, making everyone complicit in her delight. Beyond being bubbly, rich and warm, her laughter was unselfconscious. It unraveled the artifice of entertainment—seats, lights, chairs, companions—and took people out of themselves in the best possible way: you are here, this is funny. Why not laugh with me?

She also believed that rules were meant be nudged, so long as there was no harm done. For her, teaching was done all day, every day, and the process of learning necessarily made one a bit of a scamp; a certain amount of tut-tutting was the price to be paid for a full life. When I was a child she was always willing to keep a weather eye out for security guards when she felt I needed a closer peek at the dinosaur bones in the Museum of Natural History, or to peer at the brushwork in a Seurat or Monet. As her illnesses drew in the physical boundaries of her world, she was content to cadge an extra piece of dessert from my father—against doctor's orders—or take a sip of red wine that, strictly speaking, she oughtn't have.

These little rebellions were a way for my mother to hold on to the life she'd had before the demands of her health crowded out the comforts of indulgence. To my father's credit, he filled her life with small hedonisms as best he could: breakfast in bed, engaging conversation, small gifts and big meals. In one of the last pictures I have of them, they are standing with their backs to me, side by side, looking out over the rose bushes he planted in the garden she built. Today that garden is brown and our family meals are quieter, but she remains a warm presence in our hearts and memories, if not in our home.

Anne Bobo is survived by her husband, Nestor Arroyo of East Windsor NJ, her son, Adrian Arroyo of Cambridge MA, her sister, Susan D'arcy of Baltimore MD, and her brother, William Bobo of Hinsdale, Ill.

A memorial service will be held on December 8, 2012, at 1:00 pm at Princeton Monthly Meeting , Quaker Rd. and Mercer St. in Princeton NJ, 08540.