My mom has a gypsy spirit. And an infatuation with the Virgin Mary. She can talk to angels. And she is my favorite writer. No one even comes close.
Growing up, she drew hearts in my peanut butter sandwiches. And let me follow her around when I was scared by thunderstorms. On nights when I couldn’t sleep, she gave me a glass of warm milk with vanilla, then sat with me until my eyelids began to grow heavy again.
She is an artist. A dreamer. A friend.
She believed in me. Loved me. Made me.
I am forever grateful and proud to be hers.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.
(This painting is one of the many my mother did of her angels.)