As I sit here, that last of the meal prep is underway in the kitchen. It falls short of full media-promoted tradition. Mom, just a couple of days out of hospital is about to dine in her bed from a tray table set for her, It suddenly occurs to me that I have yet to find a moment to shower and dress as I make note of my leopard PJs and slippers.
My phone and computer chime as loved ones text or post on my timeline a loving message in celebration of what the day represents. Surely this day of mine is nothing Rockwell painted or would understand . . . or perhaps he would. Isn’t this day about a grateful heart more than anything else? I have one.