I remember when it was just the three of us. I was nine or 10, coming home at lunches or after school by myself because she had to work and my sister was doing new, teenage things. I remember her coming home, in her blouses and skirts, and hustling to make us dinners, meat loafs, mac and cheese, rice puddings. It was a difficult time for her, newly single, broken hearted, trying to find someone to spend time with and care for two growing children. We lived in an apartment building with other similarly schemed families, all relying on one another to make sure the kids were occupied, not stranded or filling the gaps of idle times with danger.
I loved her then as much as I do now, 30 some odd years later. I remember the familiarity of the love, can still close my eyes and feel the thickness I felt when it was just the three of us, adjusting to the fracture, acclimating to the new normal of divorce.
She was just my mother then, but now she is one of my best friends. We can talk about everything, from raising sensitive boys to how it starts to itch when hair grows back after waxing. Her meatloafs and grilled cheese have turned into filet mignon with a rich balsamic glaze and lemon blueberry pound cake. Her husband of now 25 years has turned into my golf buddy. My boys call her nana and can't stop loving her. My wife could sit and talk to her for hours because she is that funny and charming.
I am grateful everyday knowing that she is just a phone call away to making me feel better.
I love you mom.
Happy Mother's Day.