My mother leapt out of her lawn chair, long, tan arms outstretched towards me, bare feet slapping against the concrete, sputtering.
I was riding in a wagon. We called it our “little red wagon”, although it was green. My mom's long legs were bronzing in the summer sun, as she and the neighbor-mom sat talking on the driveway, no doubt gossiping about last week's tennis match and the women who played it. The neighbor-daughter was pulling me around the driveway and we were singing our favorite Britney Spears song, screeching at the tops of our lungs. She stopped the steady motion of the wagon for long enough that I felt safe to stand up in the back, shouting, waving twiggy arms and shaking my little body to our raucous beat.
I could hear the mumble of our mothers, light under our shouting. There was a vroom of a car on the street beside me and a slight breeze before the neighbor-girl gave the wagon a sharp tug—one that, if sitting, would have sent me into squealing peals of laughter, but as it was and I was standing, dancing, the tug sent me plummeting head-first into the same concrete my mom tapped her bare feet on across the drive from me.
The outdoors was always safe to me. Whenever my mom got annoyed enough, she'd send me away outside to play. I never had any real injury or fear outside, which is why the neighbor-girl and I were allowed to play in the wagon. Mom was watching over us, anyway. It was summer, it was hot. The sun beat down, heating the concrete and tanning our bodies. It was safe, happy. It was a young girl, breathless with excitement, falling on the pavement.
Mom leapt up.
She was on her feet the second before my head dropped against concrete.
When I could see again, I first noticed two tan blurs of my mother's bare feet on our tile floors, and long, decorated fingers brushing against my face and pressing ice against my skull. In our kitchen, the wallpaper was a blue paisley pattern—Mom always said that it reminded her of the sky and that it made her happy. This wallpaper spun around me, a mix of sensations all at once. I clung to her shirt with tiny, sweaty palms. As my surroundings became clearer, I could make out two worried eyes and a crinkled smile. We had barely made it into the house from the garage where she squatted next to me with long arms holding tight, whispering soothing words through the corners of her smile.
Sitting there together, I buried my face into her shoulder. Comfortable, safe.
* * *
She's tall. I've been looking up to her for as long as I can remember. Growing up, I remember more of her bare feet on the tile floor of our kitchen and her long legs (everybody says that she's always been “all legs”) than I do of her twinkling green eyes or tan arms. I've always told her that one day I would surpass her in height, but I have since given up on that. The man who gave her the diamond ring to wear on her left ring finger is even slightly shorter, but I don't think she would be the same without her height. A short version of her would not have always been barefoot, would have clacked around the house in heels instead of padding around, and she would not have seemed so endlessly high above me.
She's loud. I can always hear her in our house, talking to the dogs, my family, herself. She rattles around the kitchen at dinnertime, opening and closing cabinets and doors with the silence of a running of the bulls. Quick thuds up the stairs, a gentle double tap on my door—always anticlimactic for how quickly she gets there. Even when she thinks I'm sleeping and slips into my room to say goodnight, I hear her. When we're out together, she's the woman whose voice carries, across the restaurant, the aisle in the grocery store, or on the street. I frequently remind her that her whisper is not so much a whisper as a shout, but she never seems to get it.
The gold ring on her pinky finger is in respect of her grandmother. The emerald one is her favorite, a gift from her husband who hit it in the glovebox of his truck for a month before finally presenting it to her. Her engagement ring has two tiny cutout hearts on either side of the stone, which she looks down at, the corners of her mouth crinkling upwards like an upside down rainbow—full of memories and happiness.
Every time she goes to the beach, which is less that she would like to, it's by car. And every time, as soon as she steers close enough to her destination, she rolls down the windows. Not just hers, but every one of the car, so the smell of the water wafts in from every direction, diluting the
stresses from back home with warm ocean air. She slips her head out the window and breathes in, letting the air seep through her lungs to every corner of her mind. That thick scent beings back memories from her childhood, and invites relaxation in.
She has a temper. She can be moody and feisty, correlated to her curly almost-red hair—unpredictable, wild, but pensive—encased, and deeply within herself, unsure. She always appears to make up her mind quickly, without thinking of all aspects of the issue at hand, but she always sticks to her decision. She has a sharp mind and a sharper tongue. She can create a facial expression that lets whoever know that they've just done it, and won't get away with it, usually followed by heated words and a dramatic stomp of her foot.
She works hard. As a single mother, she provided for herself and her two kids without losing her mind, while bringing in enough revenue to start buying a home and allow to have her young girls their wants and needs. She instilled in them morals, taught them right from wrong, dressed them for dances and woke up early on weekday mornings to make lunches. She was a one-woman show: chauffeur, chef, peace maker, coach, decorator, laundromat, counselor, doctor...the list of her assumed duties was endless, and she performed each of them with a facade of ease.
She is strong. She is defined, she is passionate. She my mother, and she is my hero.
* * *
She's tall. Everybody says it's genetic, that with such tall parents there was no chance for her to be shorter than five foot eight, making her tallest in her class throughout elementary and middle schools. As she grew, fascination and appreciation of her height turned to annoyance and embarrassment. She was taller than the boys, than the other girls, and couldn't wear high heels without looking awkward. She is always barefoot; that's another thing that everybody says she got from her mother. That part she likes, and refuses to wear shoes if it is at all possible, running her feet through carpet and grass alike.
She's quiet. For the most part. Sometimes when she can let go, her voice will raise, in joy or anger, but as a shy girl, she usually keeps fairly quiet. Even her movements are long and fluid, from years of martial arts training. She doesn't bang things around, she doesn't like too much noise cluttering up her mind. Even as a teenager, rumbling her car or room with bass doesn't appeal to her, as she would rather listen to her music quiet and calmly, disturbing no one, including herself.
The silver ring on her right hand was a gift from her grandmother, in celebration of her fifteenth birthday. She wears it every day, the cross indented in it a reminder of whose she is, and what she believes in. On top of that slides a silver ring of children holding hands, the symbol of the summer camp that changed her life and her faith. Her thumb bears a ring from her best friend, left for her to find after her friend left one day. Her left ring finger is empty, for now. She looks forward to the day that a diamond will sit there, a sign of her future husband's devotion. The ring isn't really important to her, it's the love and memories following it that excite her.
Every time she goes to camp, it is magical. She waits the whole drive, speeding over the limits, to get to that place. As soon as she turns onto Camp Mikell Road, the windows slip away, taking her worries, cares, and stresses with them. She cuts the music off and drives in meditative silence, letting the warm air blow over her face and through her long hair, aware that the wind will turn it to a tangled mess, but not caring. With each turn, her mood lightens, forgetting the hours of traffic, the people who cut her off, and her work back home. She experiences excitement laced with absolute serenity. It is her favorite place in the world.
She doesn't like to speak in the mornings. She'd rather spend it in silence, at least for a little under an hour so she can get her bearings and fully wake up. She gets grumpy, if somebody says the wrong thing or does something irritate her, but she likes to think that that's true for most people. She's stubborn. That's another genetic trait, according to her sister, who lets her know when she's being “stubborn as a mule, just like mom”. She has a kind heart and a soft temperament, but will stand for what she believes is right and true and fair.
She tries hard. She has a deep fear of disappointing the people around her, although it's difficult to get her to admit it. She is driven, powerful. She knows her limits, and she knows her right from wrong, traits instilled in her by her mother.
Her mother is a woman that she looks up to, one who's standards have defined her life, one who she constantly strives to please.
Her mother gets frustrated with her. Arguing matches and slamming doors scatter through her teen memories; long nights after heated words.
They all say it's because they are exactly alike, in attitude and temperament.
That doesn't make her love her mother any less, but as she used to say, it didn't make her like the woman any more.
Sometimes, it seems like the comfort of her mother's smile has been long lost, shuffled through the cracks of disagreements and changes.
But she knows that that love is constant.
It is still there through her mistakes and through her triumphs. She knows that her mother is strong, sometimes too strong, and she knows that her mother is also weak.
However, they experience it all together.
Changes, growing up, moving on, happiness, disaster...there is an unmistakeable bond between mother and daughter.
A bond of love.
* * *
I am my mother's daughter.
