The coffee is almost ready.
The buns are done, freshly baked just now. Brunch in the garden is fitting for today. It’s my mum’s birthday today. 93 years young as we say. She made it to 92 and a half.
Those half years were so important when I was a kid. I imagine they were for my mum as she got older.

I baked today. I have done “mum” things this morning. My mum baked, especially when I was younger. Coming home from school, there would be freshly baked muffins or buns or oatmeal cookies, the very thin and crispy ones that mum always made. The recipe was in her head and in her hands.

There are things I don’t have to do today – send flowers, write a birthday card, calculate the time difference – still 6 hours – and call at the right time. The normal routine on this day for the past 30 some years with some exceptions. Living on two different continents does that.

Today, I have thought about my mum, and smiled. A very special lady my mum. Her friends would tell you so as well. I have remembered her laugh, her smile, her funny walk that she shared with my aunt, her twin sister. The way our home was open to friends and family, her sneezing. She held the family record of 22 in a row. The way she could calm my worries, the absolutely unconditional love she had for me and for her grandson. The hugs, full on, arms holding tight kind of hugs and during her last months, the “mmmm” that accompanied our hugs that expressed so much.  I reflected on her unwavering friendship. I saw in my mind’s eye, how her face shone when she said I love you – so deeply felt. I love you too mum. Happy birthday. Blow out your 93 candles. I bought you flowers, I hope you like them.