I worry about making her meals and making sure she eats.
I help her dress.
I take her places.
Yesterday we spent hours at Armstrong’s Nursery. (I think I inherited my love for gardening from her.)
We walk and examine every beautiful bloom. We are admiring the pictures of the bulbs and deciding together what we will plant now for our spring gardens.
We laugh. A lot. I say, "Mira que yo te quiero." ("I love you so much.")
She stops in surprise and ponders my spontaneous declaration of affection.
"You’ve always been like that. Always so affectionate. Your children say it easily too. I’m sorry," she continues, "that I never said it to my own mother."
I am surprised by this intimate disclosure.
"No se usaba entonces." ("It wasn’t in style back then.")
We pay for our potting soil and bulbs and load up the minivan.
I help her get in. "Te quiero." She says it awkwardly, self-consciously.
"Te quiero mas."
I love you more.