Over the last couple of months, my mom has spent a Friday night and two Saturday nights with me. By the time my brother picked her up each following day, she had expressed delight in the following. It is a compilation, but some delights were expressed more than once. Way more than once, I might add:
A tree growing out of a crack in the concrete on a Central Expressway overpass: “Oh, honey, can you imagine? Can you even imagine how in the world it gets water?!”
Her glass of chardonnay.
Her pizza that went with the chardonnay: “Oh, honey, I can’t remember the last time I had a meal so delicious!”
Meeting my former and always beloved editor Mike and his I’m-crazy-about-her-too wife Melinda on our way out of the restaurant: “Oh, honey, they are just delightful! Now remind me, who is he again?”
How well she slept.
The individual container of oatmeal (maple and brown sugar, her favorite) I set out for her when I went to yoga.
The daisies we’d bought together that I’d actually planted (and not let die in their original container).
The Rose of Sharon bush: “Oh, honey, I don’t think I’ve ever seen blooms quite this color on these!”
The pillow with a bird on it at Lowe’s.
The lantana at Lowe’s.
My house: “Honey, I just can’t tell you enough how much I love this place!”
A tall tree.
A tall building: “Honey, how in the world — how in the WORLD was something like that built?”
A flower growing out of a sidewalk crack.
My writing: “Oh, honey, I am your biggest fan, your biggest fan!”
The wine and pizza (yes, again) on another night: “I can’t remember the last time I have enjoyed a meal so much!”
The Rummikub and card games we played (most of which, admittedly, she won): “Oh, honey, I just love playing games. Isn’t this fun?”
My sisters and I kid a little (and sometimes a wee bit more) about our precious mom’s, as we call it, over-marveling. But we know full well how lucky we are to be surrounded — not by any grouses by an 86-year-old about ailments or the heat or poor service or tepid coffee. Instead, we are treated to her cheerful, optimistic observances of often-overlooked details that make up this sweet, sweet earth we call home.
So for icy glasses for chardonnay, for life growing out of concrete cracks, and, of course, for over-marveling…the Grateful Runner says thank you.