Her voice at the gridiron coming and going
As if snatched by a sea wind.
My mother. Shipping out for good. For good this time.
The game. The plaything spread on the rug.
The fifty years I’ve spent trying to put it together.
- Paul Muldoon, part of "It is What it is"
I don't have a cool baby picture handy of my mom hanging out with me. I didn't even get to hang out with her in person on her day yesterday.
But I have some important things that remind me of her.
Like this.
Or this.
Maybe even this.
My mom was the woman who let me be exactly who I was: bossy, uninhibited, creative. When I wanted to watch Lion King daily and pretend that the concrete stump in our backyard was pride rock, I don't remember her discouraging me once. She was there, as I sculpted clay pots out of dirt in our Georgian backyard, her little Indian girl, wiping the orange mud off my face. She picked me up when I fell the hardest, and when my heart truly broke for the first time she was my lifeline on the other end of the telephone, with open ears and the truth. And I held onto her for dear life in those days, and sure enough, I weathered those storms.
She was my best friend, from Day One. And is to this day.
Besides.
Who wouldn't want to hang out with this chick? Party's here, buttercup.
Happy Mother's Day to my very own Mom, and all the moms out there.
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