I was leafing through my recipe binder the other day and came across a wonderful surprise. Tucked among the torn out magazine pages and hastily written recipes I have scratched out over the years, I saw a few photo copies of recipes in my Mom’s handwriting. They came from a book my sister asked my Mom to make for her one Christmas many years ago. At the time the request was more practical than sentimental, a good idea.
I saw the tight, neat cursive writing that was my Mom’s and smiled. Those words and directions brought back memories of meals and moments and, my Mom. Not the woman, who I love deeply, who can no longer walk or care for herself. The woman who is not always quite sure who I am. The woman who can no longer write. I was overwhelmed with memories of the Mom who signed my report cards, who wrote sick notes for school and who sent Christmas and birthday cards. The Mom who prepared all the recipes that brought back so many childhood memories. I had for a moment, the Mom I have been missing for the past few years.
I can’t think of a more priceless gift.