An Ode that is Poetry only to Mom

Mom said to me, "go blog."

But I have nothing to say. Not lately. When the world is full of routine back-to-school issues such as copies, computers and schedules.

And Mom's birthday is smack in the middle. The day before. When I can't think of anything except which items on my list have yet to be checked off and which items I have forgotten to write down.

I know Mom doesn't mind the phone calls that divert into the task I've forgotten and suddenly remembered. And that I've not gotten around to sending a card (for the last five years, at least). Nah, Mom doesn't care.

Because Moms count time in dinners home, useless phone calls, giggles, tears and smiles. And for me, time gets counted in the babbling conversations that she's listened to since the first day I returned from the great adventure of school. Rambles that have happened for the first hour after a long drive or flight. When I care nothing about the other stories, but just need to gush out my life as fast as I can. That's how my mom counts time. Because she loves me. Because that's what Moms do.

Happy Birthday Mom!