moments with my mom

I haven't felt the pain of a stomachache in a long time. Today made me sad; I watched one hour melt into the next as I shuffled around the house, ineffective as can be. I was too tired to pick up my bow, open a book, sit at the piano, and do anything of use. I interrupted my mom's work by toddling into her office and moaning. She immediately set her task aside, plopped me onto the bed, and scurried to the kitchen to boil some ginger tea. In a zip she was back at my bedside with our static blanket (a fluffy cover that weighs around ten pounds), and she climbed in to hold me. My mom frequently makes these cuddle-visits. Usually they are very late at night, when my eyelids are too heavy to lift, and once in a while she will bring the sunshine with her in the morning. 

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.