If these flowers could talk


It’s Broadway soundtracks blaring through the speakers, pizza with garlic sauce for dinner, ice cream always in the freezer, front porch dance parties, never missing a call, random Target runs, knowing every Lindsay Lohan movie by heart. 

It’s in those pockets of pure peace, those little moments, where I feel lucky. Lucky to have a mom. And lucky to have the mom that I do. 

It’s in those moments, those frequent moments, where I am so appreciative of my mom’s infectious laughter, her spunkiness, her empathy, her immense wisdom beyond her years, and the way she unconditionally cares for me. She treats me as an equal, as a friend, yet still mentors and guides me across every broken bridge and split path. 

She’s given me everything I ever need in the world, and I want her to have the world, too. 

So I started with flowers. 

Mom, if these flowers could talk, this is what I would want them to tell you. From me, to you:

I hope these bring you peace. I know they aren’t as extravagant as the ones you hand-pick from the florist in East Town, but I thought they were pretty. I picked the ones with the little white flowers because I know you like those. 

I wanted to give you the world. I always want to give you the world. Because you give me so much, and I know you don’t want a thank you, but I want to. And I know these ten-dollar flowers don’t begin to equate to everything you’ve done and continue to do for me, but it’s my start. 

You are my home. The house you’ve designed, our beautiful house with the patterned wallpaper and the book wall and the ring dishes and the painting of the fish-head lady in the dining room, is our house. But you will always be my home. Wherever you are is where I belong. Whether it is our house, or Nina and Papa’s house, or at a coffee shop or new restaurant downtown—if you are there, I am there. 

I’ve never told you this before, and maybe you don’t even realize you do it, but one of the biggest things I appreciate about you is the way you converse with me. You don’t talk to me like I’m inferior, like I’m a little kid who knows nothing about the world. No matter the conversation, it’s always you and me on the same plane, the same level field, and that is one of the greatest gifts you could ever give me. 

I like talking with you. I like sharing my day with you, all the little nuances and moments and details. I like driving with you. I like all the music you play (even Ed Sheeran, I guess), and all the places we go together. I like how whenever the sky is pink, or orange, or purple, you play “Pink Skies” by LANY, even if it just came on a few minutes ago, and how we sing every single word off-key. 

This is my thank you. My thank you for talking with me, for driving with me, for giving me a house and a home, and for being the best mom. This is my thank you for raising me to who I am today. I know it was probably so hard sometimes. Thank you for pushing through it—I don’t know anyone stronger than you. Thank you for everything. 

Thank you for accepting these flowers, and for hugging me, and for never letting me forget how lucky I am to have you.