The Sorry Gardener

When I was born, Mom fed me “to the ounce” and “on the minute” for fear of breaking me—but she didn’t. When I was a toddler, Mom washed my face with a warm cloth, and I scowled—at that and a lot of other things. When I was a little girl with skinny legs, Mom had long fingernails and elegant hands—and I thought she was quite a lady. When I was a teenager, Mom insisted that I spend Spring Break in Europe with the French club—and she paid my way with money that she kept folded tight and tucked away. When I graduated school, Mom gave me a strand of pearls so I could be a lady too—although she had none herself. When I moved away to Ohio, Mom assured me through her tears that it would be okay. When I moved on to Minnesota, Mom said we could drive it in a day. And when I moved to Seattle, Mom never said that it sure is far away.

Happy Mother’s Day, Lornet.