I've mentioned this before, how she sends us pictures.
We come home to a small white envelope, a letter detailing her parade outing (she was the grand marshall), the weather report (hot and dry), and pictures from my childhood. I cringe at the bangs, the perm bordering on child cruelty, my penchant for hats.
I think, no wonder she's sending these to me. Who would want to remember those dangling bow earrings?
My mother's always been good to keep her up to date with photos. Tiny albums filled with baby cousins and weddings and distant relations we may only see in heaven. They do their time on her coffee table, eventually finding their way back to me, or my sister, or any of us. We trade and laugh and remember what the heat felt like on bare, prepubescent legs. Where grandpa would hide the Easter eggs. Football in the school field.
And among the memories and the photos and the dangling bow earrings, there is always a gem. A forever moment. I am in her arms as a newborn, the sun is setting. Her hair is as it always is, only darker, she is so young. The image greets me several times a day, sitting in the windowsill at the top of the stairs.
She is so beautiful, I think.
We are all so beautiful.