Sure do wish I could pick up the phone and hear your “trying-go-get-ready-for-church” voice: giving me all the remaining attention as you effortlessly printed out the song list, typed Dad’s sermon notes, ironed his shirt, pulled on your black skirt, and struggled one more time to make your curly hair straight.
I wish we could laugh for a bit about how anticlimactic Mother’s Day is, “such an ordeal its become, you’d say”, or that we could lament over the fact that we didn’t live closer so you could see my kiddos when they pitter patter around in their jammies.
