Today would have been my mother’s birthday. She would be in her early 90’s. She died 49 years ago this year, I was 11.
I can remember many things about her, but what always comes to mind, besides her being in the kitchen and singing and me being underfoot a lot, is sitting on the back porch with her and talking. I can remember when I was in fourth grade and told her I wanted to become a nun. Don’t laugh, I really was serious. I can remember her saying that she would be proud if I did such a thing. I can remember talking to her about marriage, and her telling me how important it was to marry in the faith (I didn’t), and how she really did not like people who used the local colloquialism of ‘yunz’. To her, it showed ill breeding. I chuckle each time hubby says it. I can see my mom rolling over in her grave. Many years after her death, I was asked to write something on mother’s for the church’s bulletin on Mother’s Day. When I was beginning to pack for our move, I found a file of old writings I had done. I reread what I wrote for the bulletin and decided to share it on her birthday. So, here is a blast from my past.
A Mother’s Gift
Twenty three years ago, I sat in a classroom watching all the other children make Kleenex carnations for their mothers. I tried to laugh away the hurt of not having someone to make a flower for, and on the surface, I succeeded.
Years passed, along with my childhood and the ritual of drawing a picture for my father while the familiar carnations were made. By the time I was an adult, Mother’s Day could pass with nary a thought of it’s importance.
When my children arrived, the day took on a whole different meaning. Receiving my share of paper flowers in a bouquet or glued lovingly in a card, I would gently caress them when no one was looking and think of the many years that I had longed to make them.
Each year I miss my mother more. Often I think of gifts I would give her if I could. Funny, when I was younger, I would always dream of giving my mother a mink coat, believing that somehow that was the epitome of a gift. Now, when I think of the gifts I would give her, I dream of a conversation over a cup of tea, a hug, or even reprimanding her for spoiling her grandchildren.
After my reverie, what lingers is the fragrance of my mother’s life, cherished lessons that are with me still; a gift of laughter in the face of hardships, a song sung from her heart when times were stressful, and memories that cannot be erased. If I can impart these to my daughters and remember that the gift of motherhood comes from children, then I will count myself blessed.
Thanks for stopping by today, DAF…