I am reminded every day of my mother’s generosity.
I am reminded each time I look in the mirror. The shape of my mouth, the slope of my nose recalls to me another face – one that I know and treasure so well. Through this delicate inheritance my poor profile has achieved what charm it could ever dare to hope for.
I am reminded whenever we go shopping together. We can be as silly as the most repellent teenagers, yet mother-daughter mirth is at the same time quite different: something far rarer, residing on a higher plane – proof of a relationship that will extend into eternity.
I am reminded every evening, when we talk on the phone. There is friendship to be heard, where maturity hangs by a precipice and its mournful fingers are in danger of being stamped upon by the words of two girlfriends visiting.
I am reminded by this same voice, but at the same time a distant one, whenever I read the diary of a new mother, full of love for her daughter.
I picture my mother writing – no doubt with me howling in the background – sequestered in a bower of her free time. I carry the image with me, her serious expression carrying my future profile: a vision so powerful it has become a memory, even though I was not even there.
My mother’s gifts surround me, as obvious as air: as all-encompassing, and as life-giving. What she has given defines me.
Mother, did I ever explain why I never added “love” to all those greeting cards I gave you during my younger, more cumbersome years? It was because I always thought it was assumed, that my love was so deeply ingrained, so much a part of my flesh and blood that I thought it didn’t need to be said.
But I will say it now. On my blog, for all my visitors, as well as yourself, to see.
I love you, Mother.
Happy Mother’s Day.