My mother loved animals. Stray pups on the roadside (a common sight in 1970s rural Texas) always prompted her to pull over and launch a rescue mission, wading through thigh-high Johnson grass after the frightened dogs. That’s how I became the proud owner of my ugly mutt, Boris.

My mother loved language and literature. She had a master’s degree in English but was underemployed as a fourth-grade teacher after I was born. Most of my memories of her involve trips to the library and grammar lessons. I owe my mastery of personal pronouns to her. She was kind and gentle and quiet.

My adult life has been measured by milestones she never got to experience herself: children’s tenth birthdays, their high school and college graduations, a fifty-third birthday, the joy of holding newborn grandchildren and watching them grow.

My mother would have been 100 years old this year. I think of her and all the things she missed, and it makes me appreciate those milestones and my own life even more.

Happy Mother’s Day.