When I was a little girl, I used to ask my mom how old she was turning on her birthday. She always replied, “Twenty-six on the twenty-sixth”. For many years it didn’t occur to me not to take her at her word. Only after a few years did it dawn on me that though my mom was magic she must be actually be aging.

It has been three years since we last celebrated her birthday together. It was a sunny but blustery day in April at the height of Covid and I was determined to celebrate mom’s 80th regardless of the current pandemic. Matthew made a huge pot of lobster stew and I made a poppyseed bundt cake that I decorated with newly picked pansies. My mom, brothers and our children sat 6 feet apart in my back yard stifling shivers.

I choose to remember my mom everyday but her birthday is special. We used to go pick arbutus near her birthday and fill little vases next to our beds with the sweet smelling blossoms. My grandfather would always bring my mom a flat of pansies to harden off for her spring garden. My grandmother used to make a lemon meringue pie for her as this was her favorite dessert.

Today, I wash up my breakfast dishes and look up at the little ring holder I took from her house. It used to sit on the window sill above her kitchen sink and she would put her rings in it when she was washing up. I used to love when she let me try her sparkly rings on before she replaced them on her hands. Now I wear them daily and I think of her.

Happy Birthday Mama.