Once again, today’s date reminds me of my mother. As it approaches, I think increasingly often of an appropriate present I can give her for the holiday that celebrates all women, which used to be pretty important in erstwhile Yugoslavia. As of late, though, such thoughts are eventually deflected to Ljubica Handjal, whom I often call my mother, as if in jest. She quite relishes it, too. “Well,” she points out rather earnestly, “I could have been your mother.” Indeed, she was nineteen when I was born. Just like my mother, Ljubica is happy with any present at all. As long as she is remembered on this day, which is surprisingly special to her, everything I come up with is perfectly fine. Any old flowers would do with Ljubica, too, but they are nowhere to be found in godforsaken Motovun. At any rate, it is only just after midnight. I have until noon tomorrow to come up with this year’s little surprise.