Many of the people I love live in different time zones.

One of my best friends lives in a shiny city in the west where the coast rushes to meet the Pacific ocean, where her days are filled with routine of coffee, baby, work. Another friend in Denver listens to my newsletter on her run. When I am making breakfast, my grandmother is tucking herself into bed in a country of her first language.

I picture my favorite people like pins on a globe, my hearts strings tied like a thread, tethering me to them.

My first memory of flowers is when, as a young child, I would walk the field behind the house with my mother. It was a wild and overgrown place. I was a small kid, so tall grass would surpass me in height as stickers clung to the folded part of my socks. I would pick Mongolian dandelions one at a time until I had a collected bunch that required both hands to carry. I would blow on them like birthday candles until every last seed head disappeared. I thought they were magical, meant for wishes, and hopes.

I have never said this before until now, but I have a mother who does not care about Mother’s Day.

Because of this truth, I have loathed and loved Mother’s Day in varied ways over the years. When I was young, I used to believe it was modesty which prevented my mother from requesting special attention for the day, so I swung on the pendulum of affection and meticulously made plans. I would scour shops for days for gifts, find the prettiest floral cards in which to detail my feelings, and then proudly hand them to her with swelling anticipation.