Poor Mother

It was April 16th, I was at the Rite Aid down the street from work. I looked down the aisle of cards with a few envelopes strewn about and decided to find my mother's birthday card. In the moment, solemn, I realized I had never purchased a birthday card for her. In third grade, I think I made one out of shitty cardboard, imitation antique paper and globs of glue bursting from every corner and oozing from under all the cut out images slapped on half-assed. Well, to be fair, I was 8, but still that was the last time.

What did I do this time, though? I repeated history. I replaced a sloppily created, yet thoughtful card with a glossy, mass produced product that involved little to no thought. All I had to do was drop it into a mailbox, any mailbox...literally. I sent it from my job, or so I thought, only to find out three days ago that it never left the building.

I never sent it.

Slapped between two pages in a text book I haven't touched in a month is a card, neatly sealed with calligraphy on the front.

Poor Mother.

Rewind to April 19th.

I'm bragging about it, too. "Oh yeah, Ma. Expect something in the mail this week." She's astonished, touched a bit and reluctant to show it, "You have a wedding to plan...don't send me anything."

Thought: It's a card, Ma, it's a card--relax.

I smoothly explained that I had finally shown some decency as a son--I sent my mother a physical manifestation of my affection.

And it never showed up.

My affection is late, half-assed and at best a farce as any manifestation of any love I may feel. Perhaps its more of an indication of some love that may be lacking. Why did I do that?

I don't know and I have no clue as of yet.

But I do know that it's Mother's Day tomorrow and I'm definitely dreading the call. I'm wondering if this is normal and I'm wondering why...

Poor Mother.