"Mama's love had always been the kind that acted itself out with soup pot and sewing basket. "
My mama was here this week, visiting from Oregon. She read a million stories, morning, noon, and night.
She read them to fairies or princesses, and little boys with chubby hands.
She rocked and soothed, hugged and snuggled.
She baked a cake and cooked homemade spaghetti sauce, as only she can.
She gave more than one tea party, with tiny china cups and important conversations.
And she brushed teeth, said prayers, and tucked in for the night.
My life as a mother matters so greatly.
I know this without a doubt,
because this lady who gave me my name matters so greatly to me.
And I know it all the more because of how much I am missing her tonight.