Highlights in no particular order.

WARNING: Freudian stuff.

I recapped the work I did last year on preparing for her death. We agreed it was some of my finest work. But my pain now and my future regret is that I don't know her.

We talked about how I sometimes prefer to listen with my eyes closed. We agreed that I sometimes feel more connected that way. I got a sudden mini-fantasy which I shared with her: when my eyes are closed, she's naked. I can't see her naked, but I "know" she is.

I told her that I don't know anything about her, and that hurts. What would I ask? I asked her, "what's important to you?"
T: Love
And that's all the answer I got. I pressed her a bit, saying, "You wouldn't be satisfied with that if you asked me! You'd want to know what kind of love and from whom."

I mentioned the blank slate. "We've filed the edges off and punched a few holes through it, but it's still there and I still hate it."

We talked about how I was when I first met her: angry, scared, hateful, feeling rejected by the world and rejecting the world in turn. I scarcely knew what love looked like.

She said I often come in with an agenda, and I demand the agenda be followed. She suggested that I have an agenda about love: if love isn't shown in the way I want, I don't feel it. This stopped me feeling my mother's love.
Well I do often have an agenda. We agreed that my agenda today was to find out more about her. I kept coming back to it and she kept deflecting me. [In retrospect: Why does T reflexly oppose my agenda? My agenda for the day was fairly sound, I thought.]

She put a clever spin on my wanting to know more about her. She suggested that "really" I just wanted to see her naked but I had intellectualised it into a desire for knowledge. [In retrospect: Very clever, Ms T. But what about the other way? That it really is a desire for knowledge and you have Freudianised it into something sexual.]
"Would you like to see me naked?" I don't allow myself to want that. "Why not?" Because it's naughty to want to see your mother naked. [In retrospect: And because I object to being a Freudian cliche.]

I told her that sometimes she looks very young, yet I'd never seen her younger than fifteen. "Maybe you don't know what younger-than-fiteen looks like. You're not very in touch with yourself pre-teen." I think she's got me there. I don't like showing my inner child, not even to her. I'll let my wife see it but no one else. [In retrospect: Maybe if you treated me more gently, my inner child might feel safe enough to come out.]

We talked about the clash of wills and how I generally enjoyed it.

"Well, what do you know about me right now?" I said I knew she was a strong-willed woman with her own agenda.

I repeated an early metaphor: she was an inactive volcano. There was great warmth inside her but there was no way to reach it.

[In retrospect: The unspoken question was, "Isn't loving and being loved enough? Do you have to know me too?" Yes I do.]

I told her how I saved the day at work, without criticising or humiliating anyone. I really am the best at what I do, and I've always known that. And it matters to me because it was a way to feel good about myself that my mother didn't spoil.

I told her another mini-fantasy. I'm showing a picture of her to a friend.
Me: This is the woman who saved my life.
Him: Yeah? What was she like?
Me: I don't know!