Five Christmas cookies under my highchair. I squealed with delight as I hurled your careful creations. You handed me another with a smile and let me enjoy it my own way.
Four long minutes to tie my shoe in the parking lot before Christmas mass, but you didn’t try to do it for me. You crouched in the cold snow with the hem of your dress dragging in slush, and sang: “Over, under, pull it tight. Make a loop, but not too light.”
Three red diaries tucked under my Christmas quilt. Filled with friend drama, crushes, and copied homework confessions, I didn’t ever worry. I knew you wouldn’t peek if you found them.
Two tender earlobes pierced for my sixteenth Christmas, even though you hated the idea. And when they got infected, you never once said, “I told you so.”
One Mom. A thousand ways to love. There’ll never be enough Christmases with you.
About the author
Julie Blaho is a creature-crazy country girl who divides her free time between teaching kids to ride horses and writing. She writes in Italy and has work published in Flash Fiction Magazine, 101 Words, and The People's Friend. www.julieblaho.com / Instagram: felicione_farm
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Lovely!
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