I enjoy the speed of the freeway, because it drowns out the silence that surrounded me as I sat in Panera and watched a father and son sit—not talking—and a father and daughter sit—not talking—and I’m wondering where all the mothers are, and then I remember it’s Mother’s Day Eve, and the Paper Shop is just next door, and they’re probably buying the cards that say I love you to mothers who are actually loved 365 days a year. Because maybe love is like the stop signs and streetlights and everything else we see everyday and we pass by and interpret without understanding. Because maybe I love you. I need you. I miss you. I’m sorry. are things we need to say everyday. Because the rain is falling outside, and it reflects the flurry of emotions we feel on the inside, and all the good feelings should be followed and said, because it shouldn’t take a birthday to say I’m happy you’re alive. And it shouldn’t take a random Sunday in May to say I’m happy you are mine. Because the rain will always fall and it can imitate our tears and echo our thoughts, but it can also wash away what’s done and gone, and we’re left only with the cleared sidewalk, and the ability to write in chalk I love you. Forever and Always, I love you. And the rain will wash it away, and we can wait for a random Sunday in May to pick up the phone and say the words we already know true, or we can just say it today—above the silence in Panera as fathers and daughters eat macaroni and cheese and mozzarella paninis—I love you, and I will never not love you. Because even though times will come and go and life will change and silence will quiet and life will louden, my love for you is like your love for me and your love for me is like the four-way stop signs positioned in a busy intersection—aiding and saving, but more importantly, always there, and always unwavering.