To my mother

I carefully open the dainty pink ribboned birthday card. I gently touch the pressed pink flower on the front under the word Daughter in swirly script. I stroke the inside pressed paper with perfectly torn edges and read over American Greetings author’s word. As usual, you underline the words you see fitting me most, fitting like a white gauzy summer dress curling over my bare legs in a warm light breeze. I’m suddenly connected to you as if you are sitting beside me on my mossy green couch. I drink in the familiar handwriting I’d recognize over any other. I’ve seen the swoop of the “M” a thousand times before on countless other birthday or “thinking of you” cards. It’s the same pleasant lettering from signed report cards, school absence excuses, checks for college, and chore lists. “Love Mom”. Yes, you do love me in your very own particular and tender way. I know when I look deeply into the eyes of my children, they’ll never fully grasp the height nor depth nor width of my love for each one, but you must have the same…for me. What is it about this love that I can’t understand for myself…from you?

My eyes trail to the precious few words etched blue ink at the bottom of the card and I ponder, “P.S. Please pursue the writing, I believe you are very talented!!!”

I melt.

You ask of me what I’m asking of myself. To write. To write most everyday. To give pause to the moment. To give fluttering wings to the caged secrets of my longing heart. Yes, with only a blessing a mother can give, I will write.