Last month, my mother moved into a sleek, new townhouse community with its own chic shopping center and Wi-Fied independent coffee shop. As I helped her leave the house where she raised four children over
30 years, I swore her new home, as deserved as it was, would hold nothing for me. I already missed the basement that my brother and I shared (unwillingly) for years, bathrooms where I'd learned to clean a toilet (under duress) and doors I slammed in fits of teen angst. Gone too was the small kitchen, from which Mom's daily wizardry emerged in hot clouds of savory steam.
I stopped by for dinner at her new place a few weeks ago and realized I was wrong. In the eat-in, airy, marble-island kitchen, she cooked the same extraordinary food that made our home what I'll always cherish: a place of respite, nourishment and unconditional love. Where she lives doesn't matter. Her life is a movable feast. Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love your new place.