Me mum and I spent Labor Day together. I was her personal shopper. I am really really good at being a personal shopper. Because I get to be quick and decisive and bossy. (Not my friend Bossy. Because, as you know, there is only one, magnificent Bossy.)
But I am Lesser Bossy, which works well when convincing your mother she is not too old to pull off a black, one-button, Audrey-esque shrug sweater thingie. (It looks great on her.)
Here’s us, many, many moons ago. I remember that room (painted blue, because they had convinced themselves, inexplicably, that I was going to be a boy, Matt Mattern, the football star). I remember the warmth of my mama’s soft lap, the white rocker, the omnipresent crocheted afghans made by my mom’s mom. I remember the simplicity of that life—the simplicity of not knowing, and not needing to know, any more than I did. Bright plastic butterflies and crocheted afghans and my mama’s lap were all that mattered.
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