You are your mother's daughter, my dad likes to tell me. Growing up, I used to roll my eyes when he'd say it. I could even anticipate when he was about to say it, and cast him a threatening glare. Now, I'm the one who says it. I beam when people make remarks about how similar we are, even though I know that I will never bake as good of pies, sew as seamless of dresses, or care for others with as boundlessness of heart.
Last Sunday afternoon my mom and I wandered through the yard in our bare feet, which is still a novelty at this time of year (for this part of Canada, anyhow)! We ended up in the clover field across from the house, and along the way I took a thousand pictures of my beautiful mother. Each of them is true to who she is and yet not one of them will be enough to show you.