During the school year, she made serious efforts to rise with my brother and me, just to spend ten minutes with us in the kitchen. She would follow us to the door, pat both of our heads, and send us off with a reminder to "shine the salt and light." At lunchtime, I could always depend on seeing two gingham (or polka-dot... or flowered... ) lunch bags stacked together on the table outside the office, delivered by my dad. My mom would sometimes insert a napkin-note, especially on physics test days. That small table was heaped with lunch packs: Safeway bags, Bubee thermoses, tupperware with dumplings in them. All packed by mothers as assorted as the array.
On the long ride to my piano teacher's house, my mom snoozes next to me as I drive. Somehow, she can sleep soundly through the blaring radio (KDFC, usually) and my terrible braking. Her silent company soothes me as much as her loud kind.
I feel like a canister into which she has poured her life, in hopes that I would do the same for others.