“Love is a Springtime plant that perfumes everything with hope, even the ruins to which it clings.”

     Gustave Flaubert, 1821 – 1880

I usually skip the Mother’s Day posts because I never feel as though I can do them justice the way other writers can.

Me? I write about love, in all of its forms. Even with that understanding of what I try to write well, I never seem to get the mothering posts right, or at least not right in the way I want them to be when they are finished.

A and my best friend took me out to lunch today. There are very few people that I love the way I love them. I’ve loved them for two decades now and no two people have ever understood me the way they do. They asked the tough questions today. You know, the ones about my love life. And they made me laugh. And I told them they sucked, even though they really don’t. And we planned a vacation for them. And we talked about A’s earlier years and the things she knew that I never realized until today. My daughter is a woman. She’s a lovely, smart, funny, thoughtful and caring woman. She wants to change the world. What I love the most about her is that she believes it’s possible.

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