Warm.
Clear.
Sunny almost every weekend.
So we came to the cabin constantly.
Me and Daniel.
Susan and Richard.
Mom.
And every weekend slowly became the same.
Mom got up at six every morning.
Before everyone else.
I would hear her downstairs.
Coffee brewing.
Pan on the stove.
Old country music playing softly from the radio.
She cooked breakfast for everyone.
Bacon.
Eggs.
Pancakes.
French toast.
Or her blueberry muffins from scratch.
Then she cleaned everything.
Every pan.
Every fork.
Every plate.
Then she stripped beds.
Washed towels.
Hung them outside.
Then she drove nearly forty minutes round-trip to the larger grocery store because Susan didn’t like the mayonnaise sold at the little store near the lake.
Susan only ate avocado-oil mayonnaise.
The expensive kind.
Eleven dollars a jar.
Mom learned that the first weekend when Susan took one bite of chicken salad and said,
“Oh. Is this regular mayonnaise?”
Mom drove into town the next morning.
She bought three jars.
Then she made lunch.
Cleaned lunch.
Made dinner.
Cleaned dinner.
Salmon.
Pot roast.
Chicken piccata.
Homemade pasta.
And every Saturday night, peach cobbler.
Why?
Because Richard mentioned once that he liked peach cobbler.
Mom remembered.
Of course she did.
