Seattle 103, or Today's the Day

Yesterday, my mother arrived around two in the afternoon. I was waiting and ready: fresh loaf of rosemary sourdough cooling on the rack, fridge stuffed with produce and yogurt and treats, a dinner reservation, a plan for the day.

The first hug was, as it generally is, a long, long squeeze, with the far-off suggestion of tears. The sun was out. It was warm. I suggested a picnic.

We sat at a picnic table by the shores of Lake Washington and ate sandwiches - cheddar, spinach, red pepper, mustard - and almonds, seasoned with rosemary and salt. We took a walk. Sometimes, I don't think we'll ever run out of talking.

She came to choir rehearsal. I was too excited, showing off, introducing her to the newest branch of my community. The director asked me to try a small group solo. We did some of my favorite pieces. We're two and a half months away from the concert with no major train wrecks. When we got home, we ate oranges and chocolate with my housemates. Then, we looked up Boston choirs for her to check out. I hope she does.

Today: surgery. I wish we could push this whole visit longer, but the sun is gone, and there's rain on my roof. Must be time to get inside.