They're strewn around me, shiny faces frozen in time. Lost in memories, I look through them, fingers lightly brushing over smiles and laughter and life. For once, it bothers me how few pictures she's in. She's always there, the eye behind the lens, but rarely in them. Curious, I sort through the piles, glossy leaves slipping across the bed spread. I'm searching for that familiar face, those blue eyes, the coveted red hair.

Four cards. So far, I've found four cards. Four out of a hundred.

In the first, I'm bundled up, pink against the blue of her hospital gown. We have matching bracelets, mine hidden in the folds of my blanket. She's watching me, memorizing each wrinkle and every inch of skin. Her eyes are bright behind her glasses, her smile radiant. So many years of effort, so many hopes, all curled up warm in her arms. My gaze lingers a second more before I look at the next picture.

The world is orange, giving it a surreal, candid feel. My chubby baby face is lax, craddled against her chest as we sit in the bathtub. Her eyes meet the camera, an obvious "shhh" held in their depths. Her hair falls across one side of her face and brushes my head. Rolls of pale baby skin meet freckles. I'm sick, I know. I've copied her pose, comforting my own sick child. Never, though, have I had the selflessness and love captured within this little square of paper. Fingers gently touch the image. Then on to the next.

The third is at a birthday. Balloons shadow the walls, a "Happy birthday!" banner hanging on the window behind me. She is holding a magnificent cake beside me, home-made goodies strewn across the table, pieces in various stages of demolishment at the hands of multiple miniature mouths. Her eyes are on me as she sets it down. If it weren't for the cake, she'd be behind the camera but this is her duty, her act of love. Everything is perfect. Everything is about me. All of their eyes watch me, oblivious to the effort she's put into this day. Did I even notice?

The last. I'm down to my last picture. This one is slightly blurry. She stands on one side, my father on the other. A silver-blue tassle hangs down from my cap and my hands are tight on a dark folder. I am grinning from ear to ear, but my eyes aren't drawn to my younger self. She is beautiful, glowing with pride. You can see it all over her face. 18 years have culminated in this one moment...


The pictures have been packed when I stumble across a box of notebooks. My chest hurts suddenly and I pause. These memories, I don't touch. They are red books full of everything ugly in my soul. High school... How I hurt her then. This woman, this person who had done so much for me, received so much hate and anger from me. In return for her love and sacrifice, I cursed her and hurt her and ran her down until we were both exhausted. A part of me desperately wants to throw them away but I know I never will. It would be unfair to her to pretend it never happened. Instead, I fold the box back up and leave it where it sits.

The TV sings some old Barney song and my son bobs along. My husband is out on the porch with a friend, his laughter one of my favorite sounds. In front of me is my homework. I am determined to graduate, just like she is. My life is good. Each part, I owe to her. She was the first person I called when I was scared and pregnant. She was the one who's opinion I most valued and most feared. She was the one I went to for advice, who guided me in reationships and demanded standards for our marriage. She was the one who managed the chaos of the wedding. She is the first I call with questions. She is the first I call for help. She is the opinion to make or break a decision. She is the model I strive to be. She is classy in a way I hpe I can be. She is Godly in a way I can only admire. She is stubborn and determined and loving and selfless and passionate. She is beautiful.

She is my mother.


And... I love her.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 05.05.2011

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