Happy Birthday, G'ma

You're in my thoughts. You've been popping up in the strangest places.  You're smiling and you're comforting and you're there.

I don't conjure you, you just appear. 

It's lovely to be driving across Orange Grove and hear you telling me to "look at that sky; those clouds look painted on."  I certainly heard it often enough; over and over and over some days; some days with surprise in your voice; some days with awe; but always, without fail, on every sunny day. 

I treated myself to a facial.  As the aesthetician felt my skin, complimenting (herself?) its smoothness, I saw you lying in a hospital bed (there were so many hospital beds) as a doctor or a nurse or a tech wondered how you kept your skin so soft. 

The kale leaf I offered a Prince Scholar fell in the soil as we made the exchange.  I heard myself echoing your matter-of-fact tone as I told him, as you told all of us, to "brush it off; it's fine." 

I brought fruit to JannyLou's dinner party on Sunday, standing beside you in our Oceanside kitchen as you created yet another fruit salad while I cored the strawberries.

And I've been feeling your hugs.  They didn't last very long; you're the only person I've ever known to break away from a hug with "Okay, that's enough!"  They weren't random; hello, goodbye, and tears were acceptable occasions for that much touching.  But I can feel them now, whenever I want.

Happy Birthday, Mommy!  Thanks for hanging around.