remembering my mother on her birthday, with chimes

Today my mother would have been eighty years old. We would have had a party for her.

Instead we each remember her in our own ways. Last night, my father, who keeps her grave so beautifully pristine, stopped by to show me the calla lilies he will take her today. She would have liked that so much. She would have been deeply moved by my father's constancy—always there, even when the rain starts to fall.

I will think of her listening to the chimes that play every day, the songs that float above. The flicker of butterflies. The call of birds.

Happy birthday, Mom. We miss you.