Thank you to my mom’s version of spaghetti dinners. Without the tanginess of the acidic tomatoes, the walloping punch of the garlic assaulting my nose, and the perfectly textured al-dente pasta, I do not think I would’ve truly understood what love meant. Sounds ridiculous, but I truly believe that love resides in a perfectly cooked bowl of your spaghetti. I could eat bowls of it continuously till the end of time, and I would not feel the fiery flames of regret slowly burning my stomach lining like most other foods do. All I feel is warmth, nostalgia, and love feeling every crevice of my insides, reminding me that there is always one more bowl waiting for me back at home wherever you are.
Thank you to our conversations. Without the arguments, misinterpretations of words because of your thick accent, and the hard laughter that followed, I'm not sure how we could ever stay mad at each other for too long. Thank you for the harsh advice that would have me angry and ready to protest my adulthood, yet always ended up being true.
Thank you for pushing me to do activities I did not want to do. For signing me up for extracurricular sports and music classes that I hated participating in. For forcing me to read books at the library all day long when all I really just wanted to do was ride my bike and play outside.
Thank you, Mom...for all that you sacrificed and for all that you do. I know mommy-hood was not easy, and that I (we) drove you crazy. Things are different now, but I hope that one day I can make you proud. Despite everything, I will forever be thankful for raising me the best you could.