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Thank you for reminding me. I recently forgot my mom's birthday. I called her a week later, simply to call and say "hi." We chatted amicably, as sons tend to do with their moms, and then she dropped the bomb.
"You forgot my birthday."
In my head was the sound of an ellipsis. There was nothing I could say. I couldn't even remember the actual date. To top off the humility of forgetting my own mom's birthday, she pointed out that my brother, too, had failed to call her on the day.
So I will faithfully write her a sonnet, and hearken back to my days of debauchery, as my brethren and I raged beneath the full moon in an open field, drinking as much alcohol as possible, and she showed up unannounced with homemade cheese sandwiches.
My friend, a devout carnivore, ate the simple sandwich, which consisted of nothing more than a slice of cheddar cheese, a leaf of lettuce, a slice of tomato, and some dijon mustard, perfectly applied on two hearty slices of wheatberry.
"This is the best sandwich I've ever eaten," he said, wide-eyed and staggering.
I looked over at her as she got into her car, and told her that even though I was drunk, I loved her, and meant it.
"I know you do," she said, "but it's still good to hear you say it."
