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The woman who taught me the words to "Yesterday" also took me and my sister on long, summer walks to church.
We'd light candles and kneel in the pews, even though we weren't Catholic. It was more like meditation.
On those walks, she educated us about traffic lights and road rules, and sometimes she stole flowers from stranger's yards, as if it were very normal and allowed.
The woman who taught me to swim for my lifeguard test, loves Irish comedians and literature and film noir.
When I was 14, she told me I'd never be a professional ballerina. She serves the truth even when it might hurt.
She's given me more than I feel I deserve — love and money and time and worry.
The woman who loves me so well, sometimes makes me feel sad for other people, who don't have that level of unyielding, seemingly effortless devotion.
The woman who taught me how to drive, slowly in a cemetery, is still teaching me. Still loving me. Still taking care of me. And how could I ever thank her?
