My Mother is Safe.
She’s that feeling of relief from grabbing her billowy dress and burrowing deep beside her, when the world is just a bit much.
My Mother is Happiness.
She’s the one laughing and blowing raspberries as she wins yet another midnight game of monopoly.
My mother is Cautious.
She’s the one walking quickly behind me ready to catch me as I tear up the boulevard on my new rollerblades.
My Mother is Normalcy.
She’s the sound of soothing chatter juxtaposed against the drone of the TV, on all those slow late afternoons.
My Mother is Funny.
She’s the one besides me laughing with gutso at the way I waddle in too tight jeans. She did tell me so.
My Mother is Routine.
She’s the one letting in rays of light through my door in the morning, re-introducing me to consciousness.
My Mother is Perceptive.
She’s the one asking what’s wrong, after my millionth ‘I’m fine’.
My Mother is Understanding.
She’s the one silent, listening, as I choke through what’s wrong. I’m not fine.
My Mother is Repetitive.
She’s the one re-telling that story about how unbelievably happy she was to meet me.
My Mother is Reflective
She’s the one staring at me quietly, with a far-off look in her eyes.
I may never know what memories she relives when she looks at me like that.