Mother’s Day, Ye Gads but it still sends shivers of fear down an old fry cooks heart; rolled over by a herd market driven to show affection with cards, flowers and time spent in some restaurant waiting for eggs.
It’s probably just me, but it’s just more appropriate to have a quite little breakfast at home with the people Mom truly loves rather than doing the big brunch thing out, as long as she didn’t have to cook or clean up, of course.
Perhaps that’s just the indelible perspective of too many Mothers Days spent away from mine and up to my elbows in broken eggs.
And it all seems to go by so quickly, we were speaking of memories, how, at this age, they drop away like those synchronized divers, one at a time, into some lost pool then occasionally resurfacing here, there, when least expected.
And Barb whispers quietly, how she remembered how the grass glistened with that “sparkly kind” of diamond dew, a carpet covered in silver; there in the cool of the early morning summer sun; a miracle, if for the very first time ever, you behold it; mesmerizing, to a little princess with no comprehension of what a miracle might be because she’s just 2 and has never been outside, untended on her own.
There’s nothing to compare it with, since “inside” is the only place she’s ever known, that drab little Illinois preacher’s house, boring; left alone on the potty while Momma, to prevent bottle envy, feeds Little Brother in another room. She slips down, out the door, down the street and new hatched into the world, stopping at flowers, toddling into the fresh grass, scooping up tiny handfuls of jewels that turn into water then run down her arms.
Laughing in the sunlight waiting for Momma to find her and take her home.
Let it be for each of us, forever, the warmest of hugs, deep wonderful days with the most precious of memories and the best of all things.Mo