Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day is pretty much like any Sunday around here. Neither my roommate Bryan nor I has kids, and our mothers died years ago, but it’s a beautiful day, so I set to cleaning the kitchen and cooking. Today it’s spicy baked chicken smothered in onions, bell pepper, sliced Roma tomatoes and shredded cheese. That will wait ’til Bryan’s up and moving; he’s mostly nocturnal these days, and I want him to enjoy what I cook when it’s fresh. The apartment building is noisier in the early morning — the husband of the couple he shares a wall with works in construction and gets up about 3 AM — than it is during the day, so once the neighbors settle down for the day, he can rest. His┬ásleeping habits make for a solitary life for both of us; I can’t sleep more than an hour or two after sunrise, and usually I’m up when the first rays hit my window shade. Still, the cool of the morning is easier to work in than the fading heat of the evening, and keeping busy keeps the darker side of solitude at bay, especially on holidays.

All in all it was a good morning; the dishes done, the casserole in the fridge for now. The brilliance of summer vegetables and fresh meat, plans for a pilaf and salad to go with the chicken were on my mind when I opened my door at noon to cool the place out ahead of the afternoon heat. I had a tall mug of cold coffee with brown sugar in hand when the Young Ladies’ Science Team came by with their brother to chorus me with “Happy Mother’s Day!” They were going door to door greeting all the ‘moms’ in the building, and it reset the tone for the rest of the day. Frankly, I’m still grinning, even though the allergies have my eyes running all of a sudden.

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