Let's Go Visit Your Mother

He said it first. Not 'I guess we can go.' Not the martyred sigh and the checked watch and the countdown until he can leave. Not the car ride home where you spend twenty minutes convincing him your mother isn't that bad. Not the performance of politeness that you spend the whole visit managing like a one-woman diplomatic mission. He actually said it. Unprompted. On a random Thursday. 'Hey, when's the last time you saw your mom? We should go visit.' You had to ask him to repeat it. Warm. Spiced. The smell of her kitchen before you even get through the door — her world famous snickerdoodles, the ones everybody asks her to bring to every holiday, every potluck, every family gathering for the last thirty years. The recipe she still won't write down because she says she just knows. Because that's what it feels like when someone loves the people you love without being asked to. Place it in your warmer. Gently. Just like he handles you.