Hi. I’m a Hallmark movie leading man.

I’ll pause for a moment so you can take me in while I...pretend to...remember my lines…(picture a soft chuckle emanating from my non-threatening, JCPenny model-like grin).
 
You may remember me from such features as: An Angel for Christmas, An Angel for Valentine’s Day, and my most notable autumn role: Spooked By An Angel.
 
I’m writing this note (using the calligraphy pen you surprised me with on the anniversary of my crushing divorce to a terrible, mean and overall not-right-for-me woman) to finally reveal the truth regarding the contents of my fragile, yet steadfast heart.
 
Far be it from me to wear my heart on my sleeve--but dang it all--I’m in love with you in the awesomest, awesome way. I realize it may be a long stretch that you, an ad executive from (insert big city here) who returned to her small hometown to reclaim her roots by way of a recently deceased and beloved family member’s bakery/flower shop/chest nut farm, and me, a handsome vessel with slight smears of stage makeup giving the effect of baby jaundice, would ever end up together. But life’s crazy sometimes--like the time we spontaneously square danced at the Pumpkin and Grits Fall Festival in the downtown Comfortville community events barn. You took old man Johnson’s hand and he reluctantly—but spryly--jumped up and boogied like a jovial mosquito, bringing a punkin’ spice filled tear to all our awkward blue eyes.
 
Ah, Mr. Johnson. Abe. The man who vowed NEVER to dance after his wife’s passing following a courageous battle with all of the top five worst diseases in America.  You always believed underneath his gruff exterior lived a cuddle bug as sweet as Fanny Getrude’s freshly picked peaches. And you would know that sweetness since you spent your summers running through her orchard playing freeze tag with your gal pals, ending the day with a tall glass of Ms. Getrude’s secret recipe iced tea and stories of her rambunctious days as a youth during the Great Depression. It taught you so much about life and treasuring precious moments...figurines. She also turned you on to the beauty of Thomas Kinkade paintings. What talent!
 
Ah! Oh, look at me, reminiscing. If I have one fault--which is doubtful--it’s that I get wrapped up in cheesy nostalgia. What can I say, I’m a softy and my heart is easily warmed.
 
Back to you.
 
We’ve spent so many afternoons strolling down the quaint downtown sidewalks, wearing parkas and metro-sexual wool scarves--which probably went out of style the previous year but are still available at Wal-Mart (Dean Cain clothing line). We fake drank out of our paper coffee cups from the Jitter Bug. Man, I love that place. The manager, Skipler, a non-threatening asexual figure always has an off-color joke to share and all too often seems to be the thread that holds our community events together (Pacing for Pups 5K, Jumping for Juvies Jumprope Marathon, and many more).
 
Wait...back to you.
 
You like go karts, right? 
 
Man I wish we were knee deep in a situational romance involving mechanically produced snow! We would totes have an epic snowball battle with some random youths passing by. They would love it! Then, once we finished our chilly battle, they would politely leave the area so we could collapse onto a park bench—stage giggling—while you attempted to remember the last time you had an opportunity like this, to truly be free to act like a child again. Sigh.
 
So, you know my feelings.

You know my heart.

I’ve splayed my emotional landscape before you.

This love is never ending--though I’ll probably have a change of heart should you be preparing to board a late night flight back to the big city. But as soon as you changed your mind upon hearing a story from a forgotten B movie actor dressed as a hobo in the airport lounge, hitched a ride back into town, I’d be waiting right behind you in the church as you prayed for one...last...Christmas miracle:
 
ME.
 
*Roll credits (which will quickly minimize to the corner of the screen as Candice Fuller Bergen Johannsen Bure graces the screen to tell us about 43 NEW Holiday specials to come in the next few weeks.
 
 
 
 

One of my mom’s primary contributions to our Thanksgiving meal for the extended family was sweet potato casserole. You know the kind: yams that when coated with a fine layer of brown sugar, cinnamon and marshmallows, become ‘candied’ and basically taste like candy. She had a gift for making this simple dish something from another culinary world. There were always Thanksgiving leftovers, but the heirloom dish she used to make her casserole was always scraped dry by ravenous spoons--and maybe a finger or two.

I awoke this morning to greet another family-filled holiday without her. I felt the familiar tinge in my heart to which I’ve grown accustomed when remembering her—and still grieving her absence. She’s been gone a few years, but it still hurts. It will always hurt.

Like her signature Thanksgiving dish, my mom was a simple person. She never required much from life aside from a good sewing machine, hot tea, art supplies, and Motown records. But she took simplicity and made a richness out of life that was irreplaceable.

It’s so simple. Life is sweet, isn’t it?

The good stuff, the bad stuff, and everything in between. You take what you’re given and make sweetness from those simple ingredients. Love the people around you. Love the people that piss you off. Love the people that don’t wish to be loved. Once they’re gone, there are no leftovers, just memories.

I'm going to attempt to make that casserole and it will taste nothing like my mom's, but that's okay, I'll still try.

My life sweet today and cherish the fleeting and be grateful for the simple things.