Yes, I know. Mother’s Day was last Sunday. And I hope everyone had a lovely one.
Mother’s Day has never been my favorite day. There are reasons for that which are no longer relevant but some things never change and it’s still not my favorite day.
For some reason, this year I started looking around our house and found, somewhat to my wonder, much evidence of my mother. There are “rules” which she had that I follow, to this day, without so much as single thought as to why. Some examples follow:
Those colorfully artistic jackets on hard-back books are pitched before they’re permitted to take up residence in book shelves.
One would never, ever, under pain of death, put just two flowers in a vase. Even numbers aren’t artistically correct.
New candles are lit, their wicks blackened and then carefully tended as a little wax dribbles down their sides. All of this before they appear in public.
First thing in the morning the front door needs to be opened, just a smidge, no matter the weather, to allow for a small waft of fresh air.
Feign would a cocktail be served without a proper napkin.
Those new, fancy, back-up mirrors are for sissies. Rather, you crack open the driver’s door, look down and back up by following the line of the curb ’til you can straighten out the wheel and go forward again.
All of this reminds me of one of my favorite poets, Ruth Zardo. She said, and I quote: “Long dead and buried in another town; my mother isn’t finished with me yet.”
Candle images from Ryan Gander “Shadows Go The Wrong Way”