Saturday after Easter

Saturday after Easter, my nephew got married in Tulsa. That was the weekend of my daughter's ballet, just as she had worried it would be, before they announced the date. But, no biggie. None of us - me, Milady, our kids - were invited to the wedding anyway, or any related festivities, or even to come visit that week.

Just too crowded, Mom told me. Her brother Ed was flying in. (You remember Ed, my only true uncle, loved by my kids as the closest thing they had to a grandfather, I've talked about him, related his war stories.) Why, there wouldn't even be room at the Big Dinner for Ed's grandchild, who Ed's kids wisely decided should accompany him on the trip.

The Sunday before all my siblings (save the Utterly Estranged brother) and their families trickled into Tulsa was Easter. Mom assured me the guru-following astrologer brother would take her to church, so my daughter, who otherwise would be joyously honored to accompany her grandmother to celebrate Christ risen, need not come.

Our twin sons' birthdays fell in that week, but, Mom told me, we'll wait to celebrate that after the wedding. Late last week, she finally left me a message that all the relatives were gone, she had rested up, and we could schedule the boys' birthday now. I left that up to the boys, and they set it up we should all meet at Mom's this evening, coincidentally Mother's Day.

Mom, whose 93rd birthday is next month, always says she hopes her kids will stay in touch with each other after she's gone.

I don't know why she thinks things would be different.

"Who is my mother? Who are my brothers?..."

Happy Mother's Day and a dozen blazing virtual roses to all the moms here, honors to my daughter, whose miscarriage, our only shot at grandkids so far, is buried out by the old Cherokee graveyard, not far from the little 5yo and infant. And to the mother of our three, including those twin full-term full-weight boys, who has also been 2nd Mom for at least one of Estranged Brother's daughters.

Thank you, God, for Moms.

Love you, Mom.