In Her Honor

In Her Honor

            My mother never made it to eighty. Not seventy, either. These ambiguous numbers touted as landmarks by the aging, the crippled.

A journey.

She made it as far as fifty-seven: a number that is by all means considered “young” to the older, wiser generations-an age of security. It was in this decade, that nature’s crooked finger implanted in her fertile soil, a tumor. It’s growth hidden by the barricade of soft tissue and mangled nerves, growing.

Feeding.

            On all accounts, my mother was a dutiful servant. Bathing. Clothing. Doing.

All the while, savoring her small nucleus of family without a hint of complaint. She took pride in me, her only daughter; a pride that impregnated a heavy burden to follow in her footsteps. To emulate the passion she possessed. I am the faint residue of her footsteps, trying desperately to resurrect her. Now.

Believing it’s never too late.

My father-dwindled shortly after her passing, he was unable to manage the loss. His hand drifting to the empty chair at the dining room, pulling it back for no one. Her shadow lingering in his every move: a constant ghost of bereavement. Every morsel now tasted bland as linen paper threatening to choke him. He relieved himself from the duty of mourning by succumbing to the night coughs and ignoring the clear signs of pneumonia, welcoming the frigid cold- leaving the window’s glass eye open for the burst of wind to clamp on him. In him. Suffocating the pain.

            His last breath was for me. It was to tell me yet again of the woman that bore me on a humid night after so many still births, finally able to give life.

 Fluid, unrestrained life. Her only desire for me, was to be me.

Exuberant. Loving.

            During the early turbulent years of self-discovery I was anything but those wishful superlatives, plagued with the wavering hormones and a fury of contempt.

 For no one in particular.

My mother primarily the victim of her own clot of blood. She chose to arm herself with poise, being the sturdy pillar and not allowing the insults to peel at her. She would look at me patiently, a crooked smile printed on her lips as if to say: It’s all right. This is the normal right of passage.

            I look like a wilted version of her. I hate that. Her auburn wave of curls bounced gracefully, while mine sat like a bird’s nest gone awry on my small head. She was tall and slender: I, fat and awkward.

Everything my mother did was wrong. It was either terribly wrong or embarrassing. In front of friend’s I cringed when she tried to place her wet petal kisses on my cheek. I turned away off handedly waving her aside. Assuming she would always be there. Standing.

            I took for granted life’s precious gifts, seeing her as a burden. She was a constant reminder of my short comings. I stole from her hungrily her strength, looking at her pitifully when she did not respond to my insults. Never realizing, that she absorbed the wounds silently, brazenly for my sake. Granting me permission to vent.

            Now, I see that same apathy in my daughter and son.

Twins. Born from the springs of science: Implanted.

            Their eyes both look at me accusingly. These eyes all too familiar to me.

They are distant, moving in time burying me in their wave of their own self discovery. I too, languish in the role of motherhood, serving them. Only I expected they see what I was too selfish to see. That I am a woman of my own and that I deserve gratitude. They choose to believe I am there enemy.

            How ignorant to expect the new, young generation to be any more sentimental than I was? How naive to assume that I would somehow be different to them. In their eyes, I am a nuisance as mothers are known to be.

            “Did you clean your room?”

            “Dinner’s Ready!”

            “Time for Bed.”

I say these commands to deaf ears, imagining them huddled in their rooms, separate.

            My mother never saw them. My children. Would she have been proud? Would she have seen in them the buds of hope, I saw? Would she smile like she did at me when their insults and new lingo aimed like daggers. Meant to wound. Injure.

Would she be relieved to know that the cycle of motherhood is now bestowed on me? Where I am the victim of similar abuse I once was the culprit of?

            I only know this. I know that I did not reveal to her my insecurities. That I did not share with her my own powerlessness and vulnerability. I know I saw her as a fixture, taking advantage of her strength. I know the satin sheets of pain that I have folded away in the back of my laundry room will not suffice to shield my remorse. I know I miss her.

            Instead of constantly lamenting what I could have or should have done, I can only live in the present. I will be as strong and committed to raising these two children as she was to me. Hoping they will realize before the winds take me away like the illness took my mother that we are both worth honoring.