|Flowers for Mom|
After making my annual Mothers' Day pilgrimage to see her, planting real flowers on her grave stone, washing it off, I got out my thermos, poured a cup, and we talked.
For as long as I knew her, she had always loved coffee, and now that's she's been dead 40 years, it just seemed the natural thing to do.
We talked about my brother and I, about her grandkids all grown up now, by name, and about her great-grandchildren, who she never got to meet.
The hot coffee was more delicious than ever in the warm sunshine. The faint memories of having coffee with her came back. I wish I'd spent more time drinking coffee with her though.
I've lost track of how many years I've brought flowers to her grave in the Waurika, Oklahoma, cemetery, 120 miles from my home, and it occurred to me that there will come a time when I'm no longer able to make that trip.
So I told her that this fall, God willing, I'm going to come down and plant some daffodil bulbs that will come up every spring, after I'm gone.
But when I come back, we'll have another cup of coffee.