I told my husband not to get me anything for Mother's Day. Money has been tight, like really tight, and I meant it. Yesterday morning he cleaned the whole house while I slept in. Then he brought me tea in bed, made blueberry pancakes, and handed me cards filled with poems he and my son had written together. Then there was one small package.

I could feel the anxiety immediately. That buzzing feeling. The fear that he’d spent money we don’t really have. I opened it and inside was a tiny wax cherry. A few weeks ago we'd wandered into one of those beautiful shops where everything is handmade and lovely, and I'd picked it up, thinking what a perfect little birthday candle. I set it back down. We kept walking. He went back for it.

It probably cost only a few dollars, but it’s sitting on my writing desk now and every time I look at it, I feel loved in this incredibly specific way. Like, hey, I’m paying attention, I remembered, I see you.

Being rich has very little to do with money. 

Sometimes it looks like sleeping in.

Like warm tea upon waking up.

Like salty butter pooling over blueberry pancakes.

Like poems written by the people you love most.

Like being seen, thought of, cared for, remembered, celebrated, loved.

Money is tight. But damn, I am rich.