For some full of joy. Maybe their first with arms full of babe and hearts overwhelmed by wonder.

Sadness will mark the day for others. Disappointment. Barren wombs. Tiny coffins. Estranged hearts.

For most a mix. Surprises, unmet expectations. Trepidatious husbands trying their best to not disappoint. To express somehow appreciation for what they could never give. Giddy children with humble gifts, burnt toast, and kisses. 

Or maybe they’ll forget. It happens.

I’ve known twenty-three Mothers Days. Some I love to remember. Others I’d rather not.

The best are the ones I turned into . . 

THANKSGIVING

My own personal feast of faces, smiles. Six pairs of eyes . . blue, brown, and green . . looking at mine with love.

They call me Mom.

What’s not to celebrate?!