To Rose Pearl, with love, on Mother’s Day--
In my mother were the secrets of the garden, in the garden were
the secrets of her soul. -lkr
I live some
distance from my mother and have for quite some time. But there are days with
Mother when I travel to see her, and we talk and eat. Occasionally, as we sit
across the room from each other, or walk, her leaning against me as she takes
small tentative steps, I think we’re secretly wondering how the other got so
old.
Currently, one of
the phrases my mother utters most is, “I never saw . . . like that before.” Sometimes she is commenting
on the strong winds that buffet her frail body or the dark tresses she observes
from her church pew. But many times, she’s referring to the cloud formations scattered
across the sky. At first, I attributed this repetitive habit to her aging
process, but one day, as I heard those recurring words, a voice within me
silently responded, “No, you’re right, you never have.” And then, because of
that inaudible response, I realized the legitimacy of her claims. What she saw
or experienced in any moment was unique and unrepeatable. The strength of the
wind lessened and grew as it pummeled her body, light bounced and shifted as it
illuminated strands of hair, and the clouds were ever morphing in color and
form. All of her observances were true,
and each had no match in space and time. It was only now, when this vitally
strong woman was forced to pause from a lifetime of limitless activity, that she’d
developed a newfound acuity, or perhaps reclaimed what her young self once possessed.
The child that
was my mother will always remain unknown to me, but I’ve been seeing more and
more of her as my mother and I have been sorting through family photographs. I’ve
become ever so slightly acquainted with that young girl—the one with the
dancing eyes and mischievous smile. I marvel at the different childhoods we
experienced. She crisscrossed the ocean
with her immigrant parents on more than one occasion. I spent my growing up
years in one small Texas town. I wish her stories were not as scarce as the
photographs we’ve unearthed . . . or her memories, either. But perhaps limited
recollections are best.
Because while I was
slightly saddened when she’d forgotten her fondness for coconut macaroons (like
those I’d excitedly brought from the bakery), I later concluded that a similar forgetfulness
might serve as a healing force. Perhaps she’d forget the torrent of hurtful
words we’d hurled at each other when we were afraid and alone. (We’d never
established a vocabulary for hurt, loss or fear.) And maybe she wouldn’t recall
the awkward moments we realized the other would not be what we’d imagined them
to be.
Yet now, all
those unalterable truths seem insignificant, because we’ve also never said, “I
love you.” as we presently do, rushed and uncertain at the end of every phone conversation.
(We’d never developed a safe place for love, tenderness and affection.) And it’s becoming abundantly clear that each
moment we share, past, present or future, will retain its singular and impermanent
form. We both know that now, as we gaze
upon clouds, the likes of which we’ve never seen before—steeply banked, tinted
with the faintest hints of pink and violet—drifting, dissolving, upon an ever
deepening cerulean sky.
This made me tear up. I think that Mom does see things that when we are younger we fail to appreciate. I have noticed that ever time I travel to a known location that I notice something that I have never noticed before when I past by it. I know now that I appreciate the most simplistic things but they seem so important to me. I agree that maybe Mom had forgotten some of our worst moments because I am trying to forget them also. The one thing I do know is that I am my Mother and Father's daughter because I have such apparent characteristics of both of them. Our relationships with our parents may not have always been the best but my siblings and I are blessed to have parents that loved us and provided for us.
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