Rose was present.
Every day.
She picked me up from preschool when my mother was having a hard week.
She taught me to read, specifically the reading beyond the reading my teachers were doing, the reading that was for pleasure, that was for the joy of it.
She made me breakfast on Saturday mornings.
The specific breakfast of pancakes with blueberries, from scratch, with real maple syrup, not the kind from the bottle but the kind that her neighbor had given her from his property in Vermont and that she kept in the cabinet for special occasions and that she counted Saturday mornings with me as a special occasion.
She taught me to sew.
She taught me to bake.
She taught me, by example, the specific lesson that shows up in your life in a hundred different situations and that you only understand came from one place when you are old enough to look back at it, which is: be the person who notices what other people need.
