and classical music

and meals made from scratch

and eaten by candlelight.

She makes me practice the piano

so the rest of my life I can be grateful

that I know how to play Chopin

and Beethoven and Brahms.

She thinks I deserve to have a best friend

who doesn’t try to control everything I do.

She is passionate about life

and intense

and super smart

and beautiful

and a great cook

and the best in our family at Scrabble.

Two More Reasons Why I Wouldn’t Be Better Off without My Mom

She loves me.

And I love her.

Since Zoey Told Me That Terrible Thing

She has texted me a few times,

saying, “Are you okay?”

and “Is there anything I can do?”

and “Do you want to come over?”

I haven’t texted her back.

No, I’m not okay.

No, there is nothing you can do.

No, I don’t want to come over.

My mom once told my dad and me

about some king in ancient times

who got bad news about a battle,

or some kind of news like that.

He was so angry about the defeat

he killed the man who brought the message!

She said this is called “blaming the messenger,”

and people do it all the time,

even though it’s completely unfair

to blame the poor messenger

for the content

of the message,

just the way I can’t help

blaming Zoey for this one.

Flowers and Pie Instead

Maybe this isn’t the kind of homecoming

where you make a sign.

But my mother said once,

when she and my father

were going to a dinner party

where the hostess said not to bring anything,

“It’s always appropriate

to give flowers

or a bottle of wine.”

When my mother comes home,

I’m not going give her

a bottle of wine.

Obviously!

But I can give her some flowers.

Maybe Zoey and I can bake her another pie.

She loved that deep-dish apple pie so much.

It was the one thing that made her happy

even after she didn’t get the grant.

I couldn’t resist having a slice.

Honey, that Zoey is a fabulous baker!

But first I have to make myself ask

that fabulous baker

(and bad-news messenger)

to bake it with me.

I Text Zoey to Ask Her

Zoey texts back, “YES!”

I text that it’s for my mom,

who’s coming home

from the hospital tomorrow,

and she texts a smiley face.

When my dad drops me off

at Zoey’s house

on Sunday afternoon,

Zoey gives me the kind

of hug that says the things

it’s hard to find the words to say.

“My mom loved that deep-dish apple pie,”

I tell her.

“Then let’s get busy,”

Zoey says.

Zoey and I bake the pie together,

and it looks just as golden and glorious

as the first one did.

Maybe even better.

Because Zoey and I