For my Mom

Mother’s Day has come and gone, I know. Early May is a big month in my family. First, my Father’s birthday, then Mother’s Day (typically) and then my Mom and Dad’s Anniversary all fall within the first two weeks. Every year it seems that not one of those events gets the recognition it would probably receive if it fell, for example, in early October when my family is on a dry stretch as far as celebrations go. While I didn’t get to spend Mother’s Day with my Mom this year, she has been and is always on my mind. In fact, I’ve been counting my blessings lately and my Mother’s value in that calculation cannot be measured nor surpassed. In fact, she is so valuable to me that I carry her with me constantly, and it is easy for me to look in a mirror and see her shadow cast in my own reflection. In honor of recently passed Mother’s Day, and every day that I have my Mother in my life, this is for her.

Some memories stand out to me like photographs hung on the walls and corridors of my constantly working mind—but they’re not like other people’s memories. When I close my eyes and try to process and pull out memories of my Mother from as far back as I can remember, it is like a movie reel run out of control, the film flickering on the screen, glimpsing everything yet seeing little. The memories that stand out to me are more like muted representations of what my childhood was like. For example, I remember sitting on a brown and yellow, floral patterned couch anchored into mustard yellow carpeting, watching Sesame Street and eating a turkey sandwich after an exhausting half-day of kindergarten. It is not that I remember one specific lunchtime where my Mother prepared a specific sandwich and I watched a specific episode of my show, but rather that this situation occurred so many times that the pattern has become a generic memory—I know it happened, and I can recreate it in my head.

The memories I have of my Mother are not like those I have with my Father. I remember specific things about my childhood with my Dad. I believe this can be attributed to the fact that my Father is a working man, he worked during the week, and when I did something with my Father it was special. It is not that I didn’t get to see him, but rather that when Dad and I spent a Saturday together at the Art Museum, or he’d take me fishing just the two of us, it was not like every other day spent in the daily happenings of life. My Mother was the creator of the daily happenings of my life. As an adult, I now wonder what thoughts passed through her mind as she spread mayonnaise on white bread for my sandwich day in and day out; I wonder what she worried about, I wonder what plagued her and I wonder what personal triumphs she celebrated. As a child, my world would not have existed without my Mother to grease the mechanics, to keep the engine running, to refuel the days of pattern and structure. What dreams did she have when she poured my cereal and washed up the dishes? What ideas did she conjure in the car driving us to the grocery store? Being my Mother’s friend through the entirety of her life would have been an experience about which I can only dream. However, I do have something tangible to treasure and value: as an adult, she is my very best friend.

It always seems on Mother’s Day we thank the matriarchs in our lives for being just that: matriarchs, for being the influential women in our lives. I want to thank my Mom for far more than that, because I had many influential women in my life, but they were not all my Mother. I want to thank my Mom for whatever mindless daydreaming she entertained, then tossed away as she folded my softball uniform. I want to thank my Mom for the turkey sandwiches, for truly creating my life in more ways than just the obvious. I want to thank my Mom for loving my Dad, for being a part of my “parents.” I want to thank my Dad for loving my Mom, because she is one of a kind and we wouldn’t be who we are without her. I want to thank my Mom, not because I remember making one apple pie with her, one time but because I remember making lots of pies with her, and tomato sauce, and Christmas cookies year in and year out. I want to thank my Mom for molding her life around nurturing ours. I want to thank my Mom for teaching me just that: how to nourish, for teaching me how to fiercely love those closest to me. I want to thank my Mom for that especially because without her I wouldn't love preparing food, I wouldn't love caretaking and tenderness, and I wouldn't want to be a mother someday myself. I cannot count the blessing that is my Mother, it is too great to measure and therefore I will just bear the weight in my heart, so that she will dwell with me no matter where I am, and I will shine her likeness for the world to see. Thank you for every day. I love you, Mom.


Mom with me. I wish everyone in this world knew the privilege of being so loved.