It’s Sunday morning. I’ve been up awhile. Dog is walked. Pot of coffee almost gone. Parrot loud. Rest of the household asleep. Making pancakes.

On Sundays, with Corrie on in the background, I make pancakes and visit with my mom. She’s there with me and we can talk freely about all the wonderful trivial things mothers and daughters share.

I am feeling especially aware of her these days- not only as I anticipate her birthday on Wednesday (she would be 78). I am really allowing myself to converse with her freely about my life as her daughter. Not idealizing it. Not demonizing it. But celebrating it. Acknowledging the umbilical cord she never cut, acknowledging that when I took steps to cut it, she (coincidentally?) died shortly afterwards. I know at times that the umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck. I know also that umbilical cord sustained me and enriched me and connected me to all the women before me and after me.

I know my mom was in pain. I know also that we were best of friends. I celebrate our gentle last year together. I am infused by her. I was scared of her. I adore her. I understand her.

And as the pancake fries, and as the house smells of coffee and melted butter and Sweden- I chat with mom. Lightly fully lovingly.

Though Mom loved the Spring and it’s colourful message of hope and renewal, my mom was autumn. She was born as the leaves turned and she died as the cold set in.