You, more than anyone else, know that I communicate better with pen than with speech, and that even if my adeptness in the two were reversed, I would still prefer the pen because of the ease with which I can postpone the delivery of words to their intended recipient until they resemble a shape I actually like. So, this letter which serves as my greeting may not find you in time within this 24-hour window dedicated to women such as yourself who persisted through the pain of childbirth and endured the even trying course of rearing. I hope you agree that it is not so much the timing as the content that matters.
We both have the tendency to surrender words elicited in the heat of the moment in place of the ones we actually mean, but unlike me, you recompense this rashness with your hands battered by the everyday toil of motherhood. I perceive your affection in the meals you prepare, the clothes you launder and press with care, your effort to counterbalance my propensity to put things in disarray, your concern veiled as rebukes, your way of knowing what I need before the situation begs for it, and above all, your patience for the repetitiveness of it all.
You once expressed in anger and exasperation at one of my reckless decisions that you regret going through the entire phase of motherhood. Whether or not this is one of your rash words, I can only extend apologies for the instances I made you feel so and declare the promise that I will continue shaping up to be a human being you shouldn’t feel remorse for giving birth to.
Mama, here are three words I can never say enough: I love you.