For My Mother, On Her Birthday.

Once, when I was in my early twenties, either twenty-three or twenty-four, I remember driving somewhere with Mom. I was depressed. I don’t remember what had depressed me, but I was very sad. Mom and I were alone in the car. Mom could tell that I was depressed and was trying to cheer me up, although I didn’t want to be cheered up. Mom said, “I want some ice cream. Do you want some ice cream? I do.” I told her that I didn’t want any ice cream and Mom continued driving passed the restaurant where she had suggested we get ice cream. “Were you going to get some ice cream?” I asked, as we drove passed. She smiled and said, “No, that’s okay. I don’t want any.” I recall thinking, at that exact moment, that Mom loved me more than I loved her and that she knew this and that it did not bother her. I recall thinking that surely this was what love was— knowing that you loved someone more than they loved you and not being bothered by it. It was a wonderful moment. It was the first time in many years that I learned something very obvious and yet very true about love, and I told myself then that I should always remember that moment, lest I forget what love was.

by The Inimitable Gibbs