On Thanksgiving day three years ago my mother passed away. I still miss her. She was always there when I needed her.  She came before I called.  She didn’t say much when something serious was happening in my life, or when I was sad, or when I cried, or when I hurt so much I thought I might die.  She was just there with outstretched arms. Loving me. Did I remember to thank her?  If I did, it wasn’t enough. It could never be enough. She gave up her life for three months to stay with me during my late husband’s illness, without a murmur, without a sigh.  I didn’t ask, she just came. I never had to do anything to deserve her love.  She loved me because I was her child. Despite the teen years when I must have caused her pain, despite my moving half way across the…