Dear Mom, It’s raining today.

Three years ago, you would have called me just to ask, “Is the water hollow up in your yard?”

It is.

And that pop up river is flowing through the field behind my house.

A year ago, if you were in this house with me, you would have pointed at the back field—your finger replacing the words that wouldn’t come—to make sure I saw the river and the rising water.

I do.

I don’t miss people and things much, but I think of you often. Especially on a rainy day when we might pull out pots and jars to make jelly or cookie sheets to make ginger snaps; because, what else can you do when it’s raining?

My kitchen is dark and quiet today.

Yesterday, I thought of you when I noticed the daffodils in my flower bed. Last year when I strolled you into the late winter air for sunshine and fresh air, your daffodils were popping. I dug a couple of clumps up for myself on my way back home, because I knew you would be gone by the next winter.

You are.

But you’re also here, in the daffodils that rise like a visit.

Visits from you were always something: we always did something, made something, fixed something.

Thanks for visiting this week, and don’t go apologizing about all the something-somethings you’re not here to help me do. Your daffodil visit fixes my heart just a little, and that’s enough.

That’s more than enough.

I love you, Pennie

©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2023