Mom

The way you cooked is what I remember most. Childhood is your hands. The way they looked. The things they did. The smell of garlic and onion on your graceful fingers when they tucked me in one summer night. Your zig zag gold wedding ring impossibly small. Your nails clean. My bed pressed against the window and the curtains blowing in the wind. Fresh air drifting in. The noises we all know as nostalgia. Laughing children. Cars passing. I was safe. Tucked in for the night.

The way that you looked is what I remember most. Childhood is your perfume. Your long skirts, comfortable shorts. Bright orange T-shirt on your tan skin. Curly hair. Suede heels stirring stirring stirring at the stove. Sneakers and socks. Cashmere from Lord and Taylor. Cotton Nightgowns and pearls coiled on the dresser. The sheer sophistication of your High Holiday Looks. The pride I would feel walking in beside you.

The way that you spoke is what I remember most. You taught us we were, somehow, better. And I believed it. So, I became empowered. Entitled to dream the dreams I wanted and to, one day, inspire my children to do the same.

The way you laughed is what I remember most. Nose wrinkled and eyes closed. Head thrown back. Once dad made you laugh so hard on the couch you couldn’t breath. I can hear you, now. I can see you, now.

The way you loved is what I remember most. It was in the way you did everything. The way your hands worked tirelessly, folding laundry, stirring sauces, brushing my hair. The way your voice softened when I cried, but stayed firm when I needed a boundary. Love wasn’t just in the words you said, was in the quiet moments, in the routines that built our lives, brick by brick. The routine that built comfort.

The things that we did is what I remember most. The hikes. The drives. The holidays. The sinks I cleaned before company came. The flowers I cut from the garden. The forts I built and the mountains I hiked. The shows that I saw and the dresses I wore. The smell of our attic and the smell of the basement at River Road. Sunday morning and comics and bagels. Lucy’s warm body snoozing in the sunbeam at the top of the stairs. The redecorated living room with peach couches and beautiful curtains. The wallpaper store. Movie nights and Blockbuster.

The way we came together is what I remember most. Even in chaos, even in the moments you were tired or stretched thin, even when you were angry or exhausted or afraid. The meals that we ate at our oval table tucked in the corner in the house on the corner.

Just a few days ago you said that all you wanted was for me to be better. That I am (in some way that I do not understand) better. But I am not. I am just different. A manifestation of you. The next generation of mother. The most powerful word there is. The most important title I have. Will ever have.

Now, my daughter treasures my perfume the way I searched for the remnant smell of yours on any woman I passed  when I was crippled with homesickness at college. He reflects on my words the same way I would carry yours. Parse them away and preserve them like flowers in a book. Only to open the pages later and understand.

I see it now, in the choices I make, in the way I raise my own children, in the dreams I carry forward. In the quiet moments when I catch myself humming a song or folding a shirt, or planning a meal, I realize—you’re right here. In the way I move, in the way I love, in the dreams you gave me permission to dream.

You are here, in every little thing. And that’s what I remember most. Always.