She puts the card back with its envelope and away. She has no one to buy it for anyway.
She looks down at the motherless little girl standing in her Velcro-strapped shoes, flipping open and closed a card that plays music, a song she knows she knows.
It doesn’t play for very long, not nearly long enough. All she has to go off are the few notes that make the little girl giggle, which is not much to go off at all. Little girls giggle.
She tries to remember the last time her daughter giggled, but can’t, and tries to remember the last time she herself giggled, but can’t, not even as a little girl, and she remembers she doesn’t have anyone anymore to ask if she ever giggled, and she wonders if giggles are memories never made and if this song, whatever this song is, this song she knows she’s heard but can’t remember when or why or whether she’ll ever hear it again, this song that lasts no longer than a moment, no time at all, she wonders if this song has anything to do with Mother’s Day anyway.
The day after Mother’s Day, Andrea said it seemed like I should write something sad. She just felt like it was something I needed to do. So I said fine. I don’t like writing sad because I feel like I do it too much and it’s mopey or sappy or just puddle-like. Anyway, I thought about my mom on Mother’s Day. She told me this year how hard it is for her, even though it’s been years. So I thought about that, and I wrote this. Maybe it’s too oblique to work, but I love it too much to let it go. If it doesn’t work, I’ll keep working on it.