Today is my mother’s 100th birthday. Spoiler!--she didn’t make it. 

Momma’s was not a joy-filled life. Most of her 83 years were not so good.

Too much illness, too much sadness, too much worry, too much poverty,

too little joy by far. 

If I could know that she’d live 17 more GOOD years, I’d wish she was still

here. But odds being what they are, and age being what it is, the cards are

seriously stacked against that.

         So I'll not be selfish and, instead, try to be glad she was spared the likelihood

of more unhappy years.

         Whatever I am is entirely due to my mom. Those who know me will, I hope,

forgive her for this. She did the best she could with the materials at hand.

I miss you, Momma, not only on this centenary, but every day.  To you,

to the empty, unhearing air, I wish a Happy Birthday.