She wore her favorite navy dress with tiny white flowers.
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“You look beautiful, Mom,S. I told her at a red light.
She waved me off.
“Oh, please. I look like an old woman trying to remember what being young felt like.”
“You look like the prettiest woman I’ll see all night.”
That made her laugh.
At 78, Mom still found enormous happiness in small things.
A good cup of coffee.
Fresh bread.
A phone call from one of us kids.
And apparently, gnocchi.
“The women at church will not stop talking about this place,” she said as we parked half a block away. “Angela says the gnocchi made her cry.”
“Then you’re getting the gnocchi.”
“Only if it isn’t too expensive.”
“It’s your birthday.”
She squeezed my arm.
“You sound like your father.”
Parenting
Dad had been gone nineteen years.
For a second, her smile softened.
Then we continued toward the restaurant, her cane tapping carefully against the sidewalk.
As we reached the entrance, warm light spilled through the windows.
The smell of garlic, butter, and tomatoes drifted outside.
Mom stopped.
She closed her eyes and inhaled.
“Oh,” she whispered. “That smells like home.”
“Then let’s go home for a couple of hours.”
I opened the door.
Inside, the restaurant was beautiful.
White tablecloths.
Candles.
Soft piano music.
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Elegant glasses sparkling beneath golden lights.
For a moment, Mom simply stood there taking everything in.
Then we approached the hostess stand.
That was when the evening changed.
The young woman behind the desk looked us over slowly.
Her name tag read Chloe.
Her eyes traveled from Mom’s orthopedic shoes to her cane, then settled on her faded handbag.
