What to get Mother? A card, of course. Not something overly clever, like "MOM, You're my favorite palindrome." Avoid the overly poetical. You know the type: it says Mother in flowery script on the front, and inside it reads:

"Mothers may come and mothers may go / But you're one mother I'm so glad to know / Through good times and bad times you never once failed / To bandage my wounds when my foot got impaled."

No matter how rote the sentiment, though, she'll love it. Because it's from you.

"You don't drink enough water; you shouldn't be licking all those stamps," she'll say.

"Mom, it's OK. Really. The stamps are self-adhesive now."

"Oh, I know, but I remember how you liked to lick stamps and put them on the puppy and you said you were going to mail him to your grandparents. Do you remember?"

"No, not really."

"We had to wait all day for the postman to come and let the dog out of the mailbox."

Flowers? Of course. Her heart will melt if you pick all the dandelions and put them in a glass with a note that says, "I love you, Momy."

Unless you're 24 and moved back after college and you don't give it to her until Monday. But even then, she'd be touched.

"Do you remember when you cried because Dad sprayed the dandelions with weedkiller and you felt sorry for them?"

"No, not really."

"Then some of the dandelions turned into seeds, you know, and you screamed at your father that he had made them all skeleton flowers. We always called them skeleton flowers after that. Do you remember?"

"Well, that's the name of my band, Mom."

What about a gift? Yes. You could pull up to the house today and slap yourself for not getting a gift, look in the glove compartment, pull out the tire-pressure gauge and present it to her saying, "This is because no one can measure my love for you, Mom."

And she'd say, "Well, this is nice. Thank you!"

Perhaps the best gift isn't an object. It's not a plant, or confections. It's not your presence, although of course that's nice.

It might be as simple as saying one particular phrase: "Tell me everything we did together when I was small. Tell me everything you remember."

Then just listen as she talks. You forgot all those simple little days, but she never did.

She loves who you are. But there's always a part of her heart that misses who you were.

james.lileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858 • Twitter: @Lileks • facebook.com/james.lileks