My god,how can I be so lucky?My God,I thank you.
To sit here with my mother on a Saturday nightwho in all my 24 yearshas not raised her voice to me,never an unkind word,
has this ever happened in history?That a mother and son share no hard feelings,no slights,at least none I’ve feltand I’ll admitI’m innocent of the pain I cause othersbut this is a miracle, yes,that my mother and I sit heresharing not pain but a love,listening to a mutual favorite radio stationSaturday night playing both mellow Grateful Deadand scorchin’ Stevie Ray, God rest his soul,
our chairs next to the fireplace,the night spins on while we read,dying embers between us,we have out-read fire itself,quoting occasionally from the bookswe picked up just this afternoon,in one of the many libraries we have visited together.
She told me when she was a kidshe climbed her favorite tree to read,her Shirley Temple hair and farm grove leaves blowing in the wind.Now here she is,reading with the youngest branch of her blood.The love of books she has cultivated in mea small part of something bigger,
my mother my friend,my mother my mother,I love you,I thank you.