Yes, yes, I know I’m a day early, but better to be early than a day late and a dollar short, as Mother used to say.

Mother used to say a lot of things. I wish I’d written them all down. As it is, I consider myself “the keeper of the memories,” though for the life of me, I don’t know who I’m keeping them for. March forth!

Our “family” was never a close one. Mother, who died almost a year ago, was the only glue that valiantly tried to hold us together. So I suppose it was only fitting that Mother’s funeral would be the last time we’d gather in the same spot at the same time.

Mom loved having all four of her children come home at once. And she loved holidays. Give her any reason to whip up her special recipes, and she’d spend days in the kitchen preparing for the kids to come home.

Applesauce cake, potato salad, Nestle’s Toll House Cookies, banana bread—Oh! the banana bread! I can almost smell it in the oven right now.

March fourth. March forth. And any way you look at it, the day after that is Grandpa’s birthday: March 5, 1888. I wonder if anyone else in the family remembers the date. I wonder if anyone else in the family cares.

And what I wonder most of all is why I do.