This summer my mother got hit in a crosswalk. When I was home helping in her recovery we had a big adventure out to the crappy grocery store with my mother on crutches, one of those giant braces with gears and velcro hidden under her baggy sweatpants. When we went to pay, the elderly cashier asked what had happened. My mother jostled her glasses into place and flipped her wallet open with a snap. "I got hit by a truck," she said. The cashier laughed, thinking she was joking. My mother looked over the top of her glasses. "No, I'm serious. I got hit by a truck." She hated the pain medication she had to take and the weeks she spent in rehab and the endless hours of boredom on her couch watching Law and Order marathons. But she liked telling people what happened, not for pity or shock value, but simply because there are very few people who get to say those words and have them be true.

Today is her 67th birthday and I love her more every year.