This morning my mom told me: "If you believe you will have a good day, you will."
While I don't quite like pep talks, or rather talking at all, early in the morning, I thought about what she said on my drive in to the city. I thought about the sweet long weekend that I had with my family.
With the new baby-blue eyed girl who's getting squishier by the minute and her bubbly brother Little, who may not be able to hold that nickname for too much longer. The way my grandmother, who seems to be getting older with each holiday, still manages to bring over spaghetti she made with her hands. How my cousins and I watch the same home movies and laugh at the exact same parts each time. The sound of my parents' silly arguments over each side dish before the guests arrive. The abundance of traditions, like how we must eat seven pies and go for a stroll after lunch. How if the cherry red walls in my aunt's dining room could talk, they would have nothing to share but photo book memories.
I thought about how when life is good, we don't seem to understand how good it actually was until someone is missing at the family dinner table the next year. Even my commute this morning wasn't so terrible.
Because the sky was spilling pink lemonade out of its pores, and my mother is always right.