June 13th is a bittersweet date for me. My mother would have been 81 today.
As anyone who has lost a parent knows, it doesn't get easier with time. If anything, I miss her more each year. So often I will think, I've got to call Mom and tell her about that. Then I remember she's not here.
I think of her whenever I see old-fashioned roses in bloom, or an herb garden with chives and mint, or bone china tea cups with fluted shapes and painted flowers. I think of her when I make a pot of tea or eat breakfast for dinner. I especially think of her when I see my grandchildren, because Mom loved little children best of all. I think of her when I see pretty wineglasses, vintage jewelry or flowered hankies, or smell Emeraude perfume.
I remember her kitchen when I see an enamel-topped table in an antique store; I think of her when I work at the massive table that used to be her dining room table, the one that was so big all 13 children could be seated around it for dinner--with room to spare. Books of English poetry, kitchen gadgets, stacks of cookbooks and yarn all remind me of my mother and her passion for her home country, and for cooking and knitting.
She was what a mother should be--soft and firm, loving and demanding, caring and nurturing, and always a good listener.
She is always remembered and she will always be loved.