I found a wayward Mother’s Day card soaked and dirty on the streets of New Haven, under one of the flowering trees next to an elaborate wrought iron gate. I am not sure if the card ever made it to the mother, or if it merely fell out of the son’s pocket en route to the nearby post office. The front cover had an illustration of a book on it: “Mother Knows Best: The critically acclaimed best-seller.” And then there was the boy’s personal heartfelt message:

To the author of many critically acclaimed best sellers,
Happy Mother’s Day. Thanks for all your wisdom. This mother’s day is especially meaningful mostly because we had such a great mother-son bonding/quality time Thank you for everything, especially for supporting me through the amazing and challenging year!
Love,

Jack

I always thought of parents as being more like crutches for when you have a sprained foot and less like books for when you are in need of “wisdom.” We go to our mothers kicking and screaming, and rarely seek them out when we are at our mature contemplative intellectual best. But the son’s card was a soggy, wrinkled mess in the street. And it’s the thought that counts.

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