My mother is as dainty as a teacup, as colorful as a tapestry, as rare as an alchemist's recipe for gold, as valuable as…nothing this word holds, voluminous as its pockets may be.
Her delicate profile tempered my features, made my lower lip full, kept my nose from spiting my face. If I had any aspirations to grace, it was through her.
When she had me, I made the birthing rather difficult, and for that I apologize. Large shoulders will get stuck, but that's hardly an excuse for a most disconcerting debut. She loved me unconditionally, and I believed I howled like a monkey in return.
Her style is not the style of comfort or resignation. Like the person it adorns, it is witty and sophisticated. And out of gratitude to one who wears it so well, Beauty has decided to stay. My mother is beautiful.
She battles age on its own terms – any gauntlet it cares to throw down, she picks up and slaps it across its barren face. The years are pointless, meaningless. They do not order her around; in fact they are roundly defeated. Time has not been able to change her, and it retreats in disgust, shaking its hands which have been left inexorably ited.
Our friendship is profound. We are the best of sisters.
Many times I've reflected on my spectacular good fortune to have such a companion. We know each others' thoughts: they travel side by side, and the drivers – mother and daughter – lean out the windows, waving to each other with happy recognition.
Mom, wishing you a happy Mother's Day barely scratches the surface. I love you.