My mom loved a good brunch. So many religious holidays that we absolutely did not observe, but dammit we were gonna eat. And she was not down for some bullshit brunch, my mother was bougie as hell and would make us dress up and go to the fanciest place in whatever town we were living in for their holiday-inspired offerings. I remember there was a very nice brunch at a hotel when we lived near Salt Lake City, and there was a giant bowl of…something chocolate that you could put in a fancy little crystal dish yourself. I looked at my mother and asked her if it was frosting. It was not. It was mousse. That ended up being a favorite retelling at family gatherings, or just a remembrance between us.

I’ve been rolling around for 3 years with what feels like unlimited stories I want to share about my mom. As is true with most daughters, the history is fraught with complications and sorrow, but there were good moments too. These stories – some hilarious, some really painful – feel like they have just been sitting in the pit right above my stomach. Desperate to get out, be told, lest I forget her completely. This is how it feels. Mother’s Day sneaks under my radar these last few years, and once I realize it is upon me, I am paralyzed with inaction. Is that my particular manifestation of grief? If so, why did I make such a lengthy list of all the stories I wanted to write as soon as she died? Why am I not writing them?

So fuck it, the community bowl of frosting is where I will start. It’s not much. It is all I can do today. She’s been gone for almost 3 years. She’s never really gone.

I love you, Mom. I can hear your weird birdlike laugh in my head whenever I think of this one.