My mom would soothe me back to sleep after a nightmare. She would stroke my hair and sing a lullaby, softly, the one her mom sang to her. I remember how her face looked and imagined she was wishing it was her and not me with the nightmares.
I remember her telling me my school drawing of our family was as good as she had ever seen and sticking it to the fridge with a magnet from someplace we went on vacation.
I remember standing on my tiptoes, looking over the counter as she made bread, and she surprised me by putting some flour on the tip of my nose. Then there was the special treat she made for me with leftover dough. She would roll a ball, then flatten the middle, fill it with grape jelly, and bake it to a golden brown.
I remember her chasing me around the house with the vacuum cleaner, laughing all the while as I desperately tried to outrun her. I remember sitting on the front porch as she asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and all I could think of was being her son.
She's been gone six years now, and all I have left are some pictures and a heart full of memories. But she's close by, and I relive as many moments as I can to see me through another day without her.
I remember standing on my tiptoes, looking over the counter as she made bread, and she surprised me by putting some flour on the tip of my nose. Then there was the special treat she made for me with leftover dough. She would roll a ball, then flatten the middle, fill it with grape jelly, and bake it to a golden brown.
I remember her chasing me around the house with the vacuum cleaner, laughing all the while as I desperately tried to outrun her. I remember sitting on the front porch as she asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and all I could think of was being her son.
She's been gone six years now, and all I have left are some pictures and a heart full of memories. But she's close by, and I relive as many moments as I can to see me through another day without her.
Mike 2026
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