My son, who will be appearing here shortly to eat a vast meal, just sent me a Mother’s Day message via Facebook. “Saw this,” he wrote, “and thought of you immediately.” He knows me well.
Lucky me – I have a true and healthy friend whom I’ve loved practically since birth, who is always available (except when I’m travelling in Europe and even so, it’s now available there if I get desperate, which I do not), always friendly and warm and mucky and delicious and smells like home. A gift.
This Mother’s Day is a reward. It’s stunning – warm and cloudless. The pergola is set up and the garden furniture is out, so the deck is the new living room. The garden is springing to life as I watch. I have the binoculars out to look more closely at the cardinals at the feeder – Monsieur is orange, not scarlet. Last night at 11.30 I emailed a draft of the writing book to Don, my publisher, so it’s out of my hands for awhile. Soon I’ll turn on the radio and start making dinner for my family. My cup runneth etc.
I realized this morning that since childhood I’ve had a thing for the number 14. It has always been a special number to me – I posit in the memoir because of a neighbour girl called Andrea, who was 14 and whom I idolized. It was a great disappointment when I got to be 14, as detailed in the book, and it was not a very good year.
But maybe the special time wasn’t the year I was 14, it’s the year 2014. Because this year is turning out to be pretty incredible. I am grateful to the universe. And now it’s time to cook.