Mother's Day

I don't know my mother well enough to buy her a Mother's Day present. I am not sure what she would want, what she would appreciate.

I see commercials of smiling mothers, wanting anything, thankful for everything their child gives them. It reminds me of one very prominent Mother's Day when I was 6.

I had spent an entire week drawing her picture after picture after picture of anything I could think of. Pictures of us. Pictures of her and dad. Pictures of me, her, my brother. The tree outside that she loved. Rivers and oceans. Clocks. Things she loved.

I woke up early that Sunday to fix her breakfast. Dad helped me. Eggs, toast, bacon, and fruit. Coffee. Milk. Juice. Everything.

I carried it back to her room, her present tucked under my arm, expecting a happy mother pleased with my work. I loved her. And I wanted her to know.

I don't think she understood that.