I thought my mom had forgotten how to write. I still have my mom’s handwriting in my brain. It’s big and loopy cursive writing. I remember how much I used to like it as a kid. Much better than my dad’s handwriting, which no one could ever read, including him. If I try, I can imitate it, that’s how well I remember it. And on more than one occasion, when I’m filling out a medical form or a legal form for her, I will notice I unconsciously start writing like her.

It’s been years, literally, since I have seen her sit down to write anything. The woman who made our kitchen table her personal office and nucleus of all list making, hadn’t produced anything in my presence but shaky signatures for the last few years.

Today when I went to see her and I opened the dresser drawer where we keep nail polish, sunglasses and hair scrunchies, there were two cards:

I recognized immediately my mom’s handwriting, the same way she’d written our names on birthday cards, school permissions slips, envelopes mailed overseas. The momsitter worked with her to write us cards, which she left in the drawer she’d know we’d look in.

And my favorite part for me , the one-of-kind way she always signed, “Love, Mom,” in big, loopy cursive handwriting is still there. She hasn’t yet forgotten how to write, or how to surprise us.