Two years ago, I lost my mom.
In our family room hangs her oil painting of me in the redwoods when I was a child. On our kitchen drainboard sit the orchids I got after going to an orchid show with her and dad. Outside our kitchen window, the muted chimes resemble those in the gentle tree guarding where she rests. And the moon watches over all.
They all remind me of mom.
Yet, it’s not just things that do.
When I iron a shirt, when I cook a favorite recipe, when I mop the floor and make my bed.
She taught me how to do all these; they remind me of mom.
But it’s not just housework.
When I send a card, when I take the time to help, when I volunteer, when I say a kind word, when I’m at my very best.
That’s my mom. That’s who I remember.
And I’m thankful.