My mother laughs easily and doesn’t look out at the world through suspicious, haunted eyes. My mother tells stories about all the relatives that I will never know, but come alive in her words. My mother played games with me, and didn’t let me win just because I was too young to lose.
That is not my mother.
My mother knows what day of the week it is and remembers the last time I came to see her. My mother remembers the stories of all the stupid art projects that my brother and sister and I brought home from school through the years. My mother saved 3rd grade report cards and handmade mother’s day presents slopped together by 5 year-olds-pudgy fingers. My mother never forgets birthdays.
That is not my mother.
My mother read books, so many books. She could tell you every one of the Plantagenets and then explain how they interwove themselves through English History. My mother could explain the relationship between Mary Queen of Scots and Elizabeth and all the intrigue that surrounded them. My mother could have written books.
That is not my mother.
My mother loved musicals because in college she loved working behind the scenes. My mother would iron and do housecleaning with the stereo blasting Camelot, The Music Man, South Pacific and My Fair Lady. “Each evening from December to December…” my mother knew all the words.
That is not my mother.
But, it is the woman she has become. She fades away a little more each day, my mother that I knew is disappearing. I love that woman with all my soul, but…
That is not my mother.
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