Mother's Day

On Mother’s Day we all sat on the back patio in the afternoon and listened to Mozart’s piano sonatas. Mom and I had mimosas at the table and Apricot lounged in a patch of sunlight on the sofa next to the fountain. I read the newspaper. Mom read from her mother’s diary. Nonna Paula kept it when she was a teenager. For nearly ten years the diary was buried in a box in a storage locker in New Jersey. Last fall we finally emptied that locker and had everything shipped to us here in California. Fifty boxes, and there were lots of hidden treasures. That diary was one of them.

On her first Mother’s Day, your mom really wanted to hear her mom’s voice. She read some excerpts out loud, but for the most part she quietly took in page after page. Meanwhile, you looked up wide-eyed at the faint clouds and the blue. I listened to Mozart dance around in my head. There was a cool breeze. There was a vase of flowers on the table. On mom’s first Mother’s Day, your nonna was here with us, while the fountain bubbled and Apricot lazed and the mimosas flowed and the sun moved across the mid-day sky.

At one point I said to you and your mom, this is what life’s all about. And it’s why we’re only on this earth for a certain amount of time. So we can appreciate moments like this. On days like this, it all seems fantastically simple.