We never celebrated Mom’s birthday on the actual day.  It always fell during the first week of school, and the following Sunday became the official celebration. We took turns replacing Mom as the chief planner, cook, and baker for family celebrations, and tried to make her a cake that was at least edible, though we could never achieve her skill and standards of perfection.

She would just be happy we thought of her and made the effort, and took the time to gather together to enjoy a meal and laughter.

Today, the Sunday after the first week of school,  would be the day we would celebrate her, though she passed many years ago.  One way I honor and remember her is my tending of her favorite rose in my garden. The bush hasn’t bloomed for about a month, the dry summer and warm days obviously not to its liking.

Yet, we’ve had two days of rain now, and the rose decided this morning that it was time to send forth a blossom. School had started, fall was coming, and it was time, once again, to celebrate.  She would have smiled at the gift.

Happy birthday, Mom.