Thinking about you, dear mother, in this day after Mother's Day. All the times I got to spend with you. Driving through the southern woods, fall making the leaves turn brown, the sun flashing through them in the late afternoon, as we make our way to the glass factory. A.M. radio with Captain and Tinnele, Donny and Marie, Parton and Roger, the Carpenters. There I'd be captivated by the menagerie of figures, hippos, horses, flamingos, and of course unicorns, in a myriad combination of colors and patterns. I never minded I never got to take one home. Just that we went, if even to admire. I'd be suited up in my long overcoat, blue with large buttons, and a belt to tie around. I looked like a little sergeant in the rolling stones army, with my long hair, and my purple bell bottoms. I'd grab the air as we drove through the hills, amused that it felt somewhat like a jellyfish in my hand, and then I'd turn my fingers striaght to make them a wing, and play with the aerodynmics, making my arm go up and then down, depending on the roll of my five finger wing. I remember long evenings exploring the world, as the days would turn to dusk, and the cold began to bite at our noses, knowing the promise of a warm home, and a meal, steady, as a ship in the waves of an uncertain world. That we were given as much, some could only wish for. Not saying you didn't make mistakes, but with the tragedies that visit other young children, you protected us from most. That you loved the written word, and taught us to love it the same. That you loved the creative hand, and put than in us as well. Some mother's don't have gifts like that to give, only wisdom from others, only crafts bought in stores.