He stood alone at her casket with his arms at his sides. Connor was the youngest great grandchild before Sydney joined the pack. I knelt down to comfort him and saw the tears streaming down his face, dripping from his chin. I hugged him a moment before he disappeared into the “family” room where he stayed most of the day. It was almost time to leave when I walked to the casket one more time. There atop the soft, cream coverlet laid a picture Connor had spent the day drawing for Grandma. Following his example, each of the great grandchildren lovingly drew a picture to accompany Mom on her journey. Sydney’s consisted of a few scribbled lines and her handprint, a baby’s signature.
My mother knew that even the simplest effort deserves recognition. Be it large or small, success of failure, between the lines of freestyle, it is worth praise.
We are a variety of people who dress differently, who think differently, who have different histories. We are each unique yet reside in the same notebook.
I looked at the flowers surrounding my mother and thought, “They should all have been pictures colored with crayon.”
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