A snapshot of a snapshot, blurred like the memory that takes me back to everything within that 1/100 of a second.
The temperature outside. The discussion we had before this picture was taken. The sound of her voice. The smell of her perfume. The feel of her hand on my arm. How much I now know how much that all mattered.
I think of her every day, a bit more on some than others. But always. In all ways. And I’m often keenly aware how much I ache for it. And how grateful I am to have had it.
So to all of you celebrating today, I celebrate with you. To those of you who are struggling today, I understand. But to all of us who have been mothered—whether by conventional means or through magnificent, unexpected surrogates—Mother’s Day is every day.
What you do and who you are matters . . . even when you may not realize that it does. Because we’ve all loved and lost. And love? Always wins.
And I love her.