Ready, Set, Go!
Momma knows when I am withholding something from her. I know she can't read my mind, but somehow she read my unspoken words. Even up to her sudden passing, she was always willing to open her arms and hold my hands because even through her unhappiness and sometimes hurtful behavior towards me she loved me and my hands...no, she adored my little hands. The crooked pinky too.
I've never doubted her love for me.Sure, she struggled with loyalty, praise and kind words but not her love. I felt her deep love. Her longing to fix what she knew she broke. I was her youngest, her baby. I held that place in her heart and no one could take it from me.
My mommy laughed and made it a daily habit to involve others in the laughing. Even in the midst of the pain of losing her own mother, she found humor! We kept receiving chicken dishes: fried chicken, casseroles, stuffed; all the ways one could cook chicken was brought in a kind gesture. Momma couldn't contain her thoughts or her humor. When the doorbell rang she smirked and sarcastically said, "I don't want anymore chicken. If it's chicken, tell them, no thanks."
She helped us find joy in something so benign.
It took awhile to desire chicken for a meal. My hands have never looked the same.
I've found that I share my mother's ability to see life's quirks with the same pair of eyes.Thank you momma for what you did...