My mother knew I loved her - loved her when I was little kid, hugging her; loved her when I was the new mother of a baby girl, grinning at her as she held my daughter in her arms; loved her when she was dying of cancer, and I tucked her into bed and held her hand until she fell asleep.
I knew she loved me too - loved me when I kept her up all night with colic; loved me when I was a bratty teen; loved me when I began my first professional career.
It's been nine months, one week and three days since she died. She would have been eighty-four this month. I think I'm beginning to accept that she is gone, and find comfort in the good memories, in the knowledge we loved each other, and showed it.
In honor of her birthday, here is a picture of one of the good times, and a kindly reminder: have you had your mammogram this year?
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