Happy Birthday, Bunny

Had she not died thirty years ago, my mother on this day would celebrate her birthday and doubtless blow out all ninety candles on her cake. The youngest of seven children, her father called her 'Bunny' for reasons never made quite clear even to her. For years I thought she had no other name. She grew up during the Great Depression and knew how to make something wonderful to eat out of not much to begin with. She married a cowboy and together they rode the open range of the still young state of Arizona. She could cook entire meals on a campfire including the biscuits and the cake for dessert. She thought city lights at night were miracles of technology and often remarked that there 'must be a million of them'. An acquaintance once described her as the most gentle person she had ever met. She lived to hold each of her three grandchildren and even if she had lived to be a thousand she would never have held them enough.
She was my friend.
She was my mother.
I miss her.