A memory from my childhood came to me today as I was thinking of my mom and all the gifts she gave me, the way she grounded my world and became the center of who I was and who I have become. I am one of those fortunate people who was blessed with an extraordinary, strong, intelligent mother whose capacity to love gently and without judgment was balanced by her unfaltering ability to brook no nonsense from her girls. While life and the world and growing up and adolescence and my raging shyness swirled about me like a tornado, the moment I thought of my mother the noise stopped, the frenetic winds of change quieted, and breathing became easier. Even after I grew up and moved far away from our East Texas farmstead, she was always a comforting phone call away.​

We were not wealthy when I was young, by any means. My parents both worked full time and ran a working farm in the evenings and on weekends. It was always a stretch to have money above and beyond necessities, and Mom saved a few dollars back from the grocery money every week to buy small gifts for us girls and to set aside for school clothes.​

One day, my mother called me into her bedroom and gave me a package. Inside was a box of 72 crayons, arranged in tiers with perfect points of every color. I’ll never forget the smell of the wax when I opened the box and the joy that flooded me from head to toe. I had wanted those crayons for so long that I could not remember the first time I began longing for them. This memory stands out because it was the moment I realized, without a doubt, that my mother believed in me. She believed in my dreams and she believed in my talent. This was the gift, one so deep and rich it has never stopped giving, no matter how many times I unwrap its memory and hold it up to the light.​

It never occurred to me until a few moments ago that she probably had a gift for every one of my sisters, something she knew appealed to their hearts, too. But I kept that precious box of 72 crayons a secret, since she asked me to. Each time I think of those crayons, I’m bathed again in the warmth and weight of her love. This week is the two-year anniversary of her passing. I still feel her with me. I may not be able to pick up the phone and call her anymore or sit at her kitchen table and watch her work her crossword puzzles and drink her iced tea, but the echo of her voice and her laughter never leaves me. If I had to choose a life again from the beginning, I would choose exactly this one, because it would mean she would be my mom.