I don’t know why I’m so afraid to explain to my mama how much I love her, to tell her that she’s the very reason I even believe in love. she’s in the other room right now ordering my cat to become a better feline: “you need to make some damn changes in your life, cat!”

My cat scratches holes in the sofa if my mama doesn’t squirt cheese on the floor. Sometimes my mama makes special trips to the grocery store simply because she knows how cranky my cat gets without her easy-cheese. This special treatment isn't just for the cat, though.

She's always fed every stray dog in our neighborhood; she’s never impartial to any of them. She sits on the porch and yanks ticks from their flesh for hours, as if they were her own children. she always brings them a slice of cheese, too. no dog - no matter how smelly - leaves my mama’s porch without a slice of cheese.


She doesn’t reserve all of her love for the animals, though. She always goes out of her way to make sure I'm the happiest lady in all of pilot mountain. Sometimes she even gives up a bingo night for me, which means more than anything because everyone knows how much my mama loves bingo.


When William Wordsworth visited tintern abbey later in his life, the place meant so much more because he had been there once before with his sister. Everywhere I go with my mama already means so much more just because she has been there with me. My mama won’t be here forever, and that thought is so completely foreign and heartbreaking at this particular moment in time. I need her. I could spend every second of my life trying to tell my mama how much I love her, but my efforts would still be inadequate.

she is the reason for the cigarette burns in the sofas, blankets, and mattresses. She's the reason for the can of easy-cheese on my coffee table. She's the happiness of every stray; she's the happiness of every tracie.
She's also at bingo every tuesday, thursday, friday, and saturday.

I love my mama.