I am still lucky enough to spend the day before Mother’s Day with my Mom. I brought her a flower centerpiece, a balloon and an offer to drive her to the local church thrift store.
Hours are every Saturday morning, rain or shine. The weather was overcast and the sky was ready to open up at any moment. The bargain basement is only a few miles away but there’s a long desolate road in the middle called “the strip”.
Halfway to the thrift, we see a man walking along the strip. I beep at him which scares my mother to death. I wave with a smile and my mother doesn’t comprehend such behavior.
“You know him!?”, she finally asks after getting back into her own skin.
“No. I guess I’m like Dad. It was a friendly impulse.”
My mother says more than she does on most trips. She lets out a long, exasperated, disagreeing sigh.
I respond accordingly, “Maybe we should go back and ask if he needs a ride?”
My sweet mother about chokes, shifts in her seat and I can feel her evil eye as I smirk into the windshield. Even though she’s 86, I still love to get her ire up. I am a good daughter but the instigator of the family.
I think I’m funny. My mother does not. At all. Although she was lucky enough to spend a day with me.