If you were here today, you'd be cooking for your guests, because you always wanted to be surrounded by others for celebrations. And it was never enough to have others around, you had to feed them all.

Today, my house is filled with the smell of marinara and meatballs, one of your classic fall meals. Not only could it feed your whole family, but it could feed anyone who happened to come by at dinner time, too. A child of the depression, you never wanted anyone to go hungry.

Your smile could light up the room. Even when you'd spent a year in the hospital, recovering from polio, Nana and Papa would talk of how you had the ever-present smile, even when they weren't sure you'd walk again.
Spring, 1939-first time out of the hospital in a year.

You were determined. You would walk again.

I wish you were still here to celebrate today.

I miss you, Mom.


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