Mom

I miss my mom. She calls me “pretty girl” and “princess,” and not in a derogatory way either. She says it because she thinks I’m the prettiest girl in the entire world, and she makes me feel that way too. And I can make her laugh. There is no one in the world I can make laugh as consistently as her. And, though I have that power, I know I could break her heart just as easily. And she could mine.

When I go home for a visit she makes me breakfast of French toast or pancakes or sausage or something and stands there and watches me eat, ready to spring into action if I should face, let’s say, an empty saltshaker. She didn’t smother me like that growing up; trust me, she saw the value in my learning how to get the saltshaker on my own two feet, but something about the way she dots over me when I visit home secures me in the knowledge that I am treasured – delighted in. I miss my mom incredibly. I miss the way she lets me bury my little-girl fears in her embrace, yet makes me feel like the strong, competent woman I always saw in her. I am a girl and a woman in her eyes, and she knows how to meet the needs of both. I wish I lived closer to my mom. I really do miss her right now.