Another Candle on an Untouched Cake

My mother would have been sixty-three today.
I have a picture of her and I—one of the few, because she did not liking having photos taken—sitting on my desk at home, next to my monitor. My daughter likes to pick it up and point to it. She points to me in the picture and then me sitting with her and I say “Yes, I’m your daddy.” Then she points to my mother. “That’s your grandmother,” I tell her. “She loved you very much.” She smiles and nods but I know she doesn’t really remember, and it breaks my heart.
My son should be born in the next month or two. He will never meet my mother. She will never get to see him or hold him or coo at him, which at least she did get a few times with my daughter. When he is older I will show him the picture and tell him about her, but it won’t be the same.
My first novel is now on sale. My mother will never get to read it, or to smile proudly as she shows it to her friends and says, “my son wrote this.”
But she wouldn’t want me to be sad. Birthdays are for remembering and celebrating, and she would prefer that to grief.
Last night on my way home I bought a pint of chocolate ice cream—Godiva’s Dark Chocolate with Chocolate Hearts, nothing but the best for my mother. Tonight we will eat that in her honor. It’s a tribute she would appreciate.
If you knew her, or simply wish you had, I urge you to do the same. If you cherish love, life, and family, good food and good books, you are invited to participate.
Raise your spoons high, in honor of a wonderful woman taken from us far too soon. Raise them high, I say, for a woman who is still dearly loved and still sorely missed.
Happy Birthday, Mom. I wish you were here.