On her 87th

My mother loved her birthday. Her personality was too fanciful to narrow the celebration down to the actual day, January ninth, so she stretched it to last the whole month. She liked to get gifts, "personal" ones, clothes mostly though candies and art supplies were also welcomed, and then she would give lavish thank yous while holding the gift closely to her thin chest. But I don't think I ever thanked her enough for what she gave me, sometimes it takes a lifetime to even know, but for these gifts, I remember.

Thanks Mother for loving me. Your love was the steely strength I felt when I was going through hard times.

Thank you for teaching me the basics of cooking. You could have written a kitchen primer, though for that one thing you would not have given yourself credit.

Thanks for teaching me to see the beauty in people no matter their circumstances, and well...just beauty in general.

Thank you for sharing your passions with me, so that I would know that the world is full of passion.

Thank you for being there when I got home from school and for making me pay for a taxi to get to school on that umpteenth day I overslept.

Thanks for giving me freedom and for trusting me to do the right thing. I did.

Thank you for teaching me about music and song and for singing with me in the car and dancing with me all around the house.

Thanks for your openness and for sharing what it is like to really live and feel and grow and age. Because of you I am not shocked by my new white whiskers.

Thanks for teaching me the ability to laugh at myself. You, in your sophisticated high-cheeked beauty would proclaim, "My eyes look like two burned holes in a blanket," and we would laugh.

You Mother were always the funniest, and if I wanted to stop a bad feeling, I always knew I could call and we would end up in hysterics. And I would feel so much better.

I wish I had told you sooner.