Remembering my mother’s birthday takes on a new dimension every year. Either I remember more about things she did and said or I pay closer attention to snippets of memories locked deep in the recesses of my brain. My memories are not the shining, expansive recollections I so often read about in memoirs about someone who has long since died. But they are powerful, nevertheless. I don’t know if my mother really loved yellow roses as much as I think she did; maybe I’ve amplified words of appreciation I heard her say in passing into something more powerful than they were. I’ll never know, at least not directly from her, whether she found yellow roses as profoundly meaningful as my memory tells me. Regardless, for now I’ll remember my mother with a bouquet borrowed from a massive resource she never knew, the internet.
