My mother, were she alive, would have turned eighty-four today. I will celebrate this birthdate in my usual way, a rousing rendition of Happy Birthday (likely in the car where it is less likely to startle neighbours, birds at the feeders or yard-crossing cats). I will also light a candle.
We could have had a better relationship, my mother and I; I could be remembering her differently. At times I send an "oh, darn" thought to her memory. But it was what it was and I am what I am because of and in spite of our interaction. Interestingly, I have learned much about the mother/daughter relationship in the years since her death. I can’t really explain this but I certainly feel it and am surprised.