Happy Birthday, Mom.

Today is my mother's birthday.

It doesn't really matter how old she would have been today, because she has come to a standstill in my mind; she remains forever the same age, which I'm sure would ultimately please her.

Mom taught me a lot of things. She taught me how to plant flowers and that if I listened very carefully, I might hear them thanking me for the drink of cool water straight from the hose on a hot summer day. Mom taught me to make fresh jams and to crochet left-handed and to eat the heart from the watermelon before anyone else could get to it. She taught me that Saturday-is-the-day-we-get-ready-for Sunday and that there is always enough food to share with the hungry or lonely and that Easter requires a new dress. Mom taught me that picnics are better than restaurants and caramel popcorn balls are better than candy bars. She taught me how to love and how to be loved.

And she taught me to laugh.

I was surprised to find that some of my siblings did not recognize our mother's sass and sense of humor. She was the concocter of wild schemes and the maker-upper of words that really should exist in the English language.

I have a picture taken with her, just days before she was hospitalized and never returned home. It is a couple of days after Thanksgiving and I have the presence of mind for a three-generation photo with me, Daughter and Mom.

We are gathered around her as she sits in her favorite pink rocker. We are all smiling in the picture, real smiles that can't be 'cheesed'. Smiles that can only come for one of Mom's crazy comments.

I remember clearly why we are all smiling, why the twinkle in our eyes is so honest.

Moments before Hub snaps the shot, Mom looks down at her sweatshirt, her breasts making small lumps in the green fabric.

If I'd known I was getting my picture taken today, she says, I would have put on my good bra.

Snap.

That's the way I remember my Mother.

A real Trophy Wife.