Two months later, my mother no longer had a mother. Or a father. And I was pregnant.
Five years ago on Mother’s Day, I was huge and round and ripe and was quite sure that I would become a mother that day, that very day.
Two days later, I became a mother. In my house, on my bed, I held in my arms the key to the universe.
Four years ago on Mother’s Day, we celebrated with a brunch, on a beach, with my child, her father and my father. It was sunny and warm and breezy and wonderful.
Two months later, my father started to feel tired.
Three years ago on Mother’s Day, I was pregnant. I spent the day with my mother, my child and her father. We laughed and smiled and it felt good.
Two weeks later, I was with my father, and I tried to make him laugh or at least smile, as cancer ravaged him and chemo threatened to finish the job.
Two years ago on Mother’s Day, we gave the day to my older daughter and had her birthday party instead. I held my baby daughter in my arms. We laughed and smiled and it felt good.
Last year on Mother’s Day, there were six daughters and three mothers and a couple of sons thrown in for good measure and we ate too much and laughed too much and we were together and happy.
This year on Mother’s Day,
There will be joy.