Mother's Day, from a distance

This is the second Mother's Day in a row my mother and I have spent on the phone. I minded the first one less than I minded this one, which surprised me, until I worked out why. Last year there was no end to it in sight. This year there is.

I had my second shot on Tuesday, at a pharmacy on Broadway, from a pharmacist who was so tired she called me "sweetheart" and then apologized for it. I spent Wednesday on the couch with a sore arm and a fever that felt like the flu's younger brother, and I was happy about every minute of it. Two more weeks and I'm done.

My mother has been done since February. She has been very gracious about not mentioning it more than twice a call.

On Friday I booked a flight. Seattle to Minneapolis, Minneapolis to Duluth, the little plane I've been afraid of since I was twelve and will be afraid of again in June, gladly. I'll have been away from home for eighteen months by the time it lands. I've never gone a year without seeing her before, let alone a year and a half.

I sent the usual card for today, and a letter with it, because she taught me that a card alone doesn't count as writing to someone. This year I also folded a printout of the itinerary inside. She tells me it's on the refrigerator, under the magnet shaped like a freighter that has held up every important piece of paper in that kitchen since 1990.

We talked for an hour and a half this morning. Mostly about the garden, and a book she didn't like, and whether I should bring a sweater in June, which in Duluth is a real question. Near the end she said, "Well. Four weeks," and then neither of us said anything for a while, which on the phone is very expensive silence and was worth it.