I love my Mom.
I love how she looks right through what I am to who I am and loves me. I love how what I do means so much to her, and yet it means so little to her, because either way it’s just that it’s me that gives it meaning.
I love thinking back to my childhood because of my Mom. I can remember so little of so much, but so much of the little things that she said or did for me. They shaped me. They built me. They guided me. The gentle touch of her kind words and sweet tone were the anchor of my life for so long.
I trusted her when she warned me of danger, and it kept me from it. I heard her when she would encourage me to do the right thing and be the right kind of young man, and I never regret when I heeded her. She taught me sobriety, propriety, and effort. I believed her when she taught me respect and honour for those things honourable and respectable. I believed her when she taught me of God, of respect for Him, and how He is worthy of our honour.
My Mom seems simple sometimes, perched in her quiet observance. Rarely does she speak up and stick her nose into my business, but when she does, I’m listening. I know she doesn’t know everything, but I also know I never wish I hadn’t heard what she had to say. Besides, she usually says it in the middle of a hug. You know the hugs I mean. The hug that is like the world is okay and nothing is wrong. It cures depression and obsession. It’s that mom-hug that quenches anger and regret. There’s just something super powerful about the trouble-melting energy from a hug from Mom. In fact, I kind of want one right now.
I owe my mom so much. She works so hard for me. She gives so much for me. It’s true that one of the greatest of things this world has to offer is a mother like my mother. I wouldn’t change her a bit, and I wouldn’t trade her for anything.
I love you Mom. (And.. and your pies. mmmm)