love concentrate

A person of few words, my ma.

She sends occasional post cards or birthday cards with a brief note; maybe a random gift of something she spied that tickled her fancy or funny bone. She doesn't call. And if you call, it's not unheard of for her to end a relatively brief conversation with, "Well, I don't really feel like talking anymore." Email she does: sporadic morsels of her life, all moments of truth laid out in her capricious, matter-of-fact, stream of consciousness style.

You could say she's terse, and that might be accurate, sometimes. She is what she is, though, and she’s not apologetic about it. To want for more is an exercise in futility; grand displays are not her style.

What matters: She loves me and tells me often. She trusts me with my own life. And on the rare occasion when I do see her, she'll scratch my back and my head and play with my hair for as long as I want.