|3 minute read|
At five years old, every morning was a nightmare for me. Before I was old enough to go to school, my grandparents would take turns watching my brother and I for the day when both of our parents were at work. Separated from my mother, even for her workday, would tear me to shreds. I’d sit on the top of the couch, my wet, tear-stained face between the blinds, waving to my mom as she took her time pulling out of the driveway, waving back. She tells me that even when I was a baby, not old enough to stand on my own, I always had to be propped up on her hip; “I had to learn to do everything with one hand!” she always adds. To be mother and daughter, the bond that creates life, nature’s driving force.
Back as a child, gasping for air between sobs, she became clever about leaving. Curled up in bed she would always read to my brother and I, and in one of these instances she read the book, The Kissing Hand, by Audrey Penn. A story of a mother and daughter racoon, the latter always dreading being away from one another. To bring comfort, the mother raccoon kisses her daughter's paw to reassure her that her kiss, her presence, her warmth, is always with her no matter where they go. So before she left for school, before she went on a trip, before we split up in any respect, she would kiss my hand and I would kiss hers, to carry around each other until we met again. From leaving for preschool, to leaving for college, off into the world I went, knowing that I would never stray too far from her.
In the summer heading into my junior year of college, I bit the bullet and had my grandma cut my hair into bangs. And after she blew it dry, she curled it ever so slightly. Freshly cut brown hair, wound into loose curls that fell upon my shoulders. She turned me around in the chair to face the mirror again and for a split second I looked exactly like my mother. It was her still staring back at me; the look in her eyes and her wide grin. With or without bangs, I knew I would be carrying her within me for the rest of my life.
Not only in my reflection did I see her, but in my experiences, my actions, my attitudes, and I can only hope that she can see me in hers. I have learned all I know from her, knowing I am capable of success because of my upbringing. How to stick up for myself; my tough skin of her making. I walk through this life the way that I am because of her. Coping with retail therapy, knowing when to rest, or knowing when to persevere. A portrait of strength I see in her, a portrait of independence. Like mother, like daughter, an extension of each other to meet the world over and over again.
The evolution of our relationship, a privilege I have had to see us grow together. She is living her life for the first time, just as I am, coming down to just us girls getting by. A teenage argument with her, screaming and yelling for my independence turned into calm wine nights and conversations reaching the lateness of the night. Our friday night slumber parties on the living room floor, turned into weekend girls trips, or her willingness to travel with me for competitions, and audition for college programs. Both of us trying on clothes and showing each other, or her on the floor as I laid my boy problems, or friend problems, or life problems out to her, always knowing what to say. Calling her to see if my shirt can be washed with the darks or the lights or calling her to ask where the peanut butter is located in a store. And I’m lucky because I know she’ll always answer. In gratitude, I can call her my best friend.
I’m writing and rewriting this, over and over, but it seems that no collection of words could ever express my gratitude for Marlena. To know her is to know love, vitality. Our house a revolving door, she’s everyone’s mom. Because her little sacrifices add up to a significant impact. Because she can express her affection in an abundance of ways. Because to her making everyone happy, in turn makes her happy. With her arms always open, I can only hope to be half the woman she is.
And not only to just my mom, but the other mothers that have cared for me along the way. Molly’s mom who took me in as her own as I navigated being away from home for the first time, generous and kind. To Maggie’s mom, who brings so much joy into the world that it can be felt in every little space, swelling the air with laughter and warmth. To every mom that was backstage at dance competitions and recitals, calming the storm, wiping my tears, helping with costume changes or malfunctions, always the loudest ones among the audience cheering us on. To every mom in between, passing little acts of love as a transaction of care. And to every great mom I know is a beautiful friend. Like mother, like daughter, their actions are a reflection of their maternal upbringing, being molded by a kind heart, to continue the lineage of our womanhood.
But if it’s love we lack, if it’s love we hope to find, we mother ourselves, we mother each other. Because I have wiped tears off of my friends' cheeks, just as they have done for me, just as my mother did when I cried as she walked out the door. And I have called on my friends after a drunken mistake or in need of advice, just as I have answered my friends calls, just as my mom has picked up the phone for me. In the back of my throat I choke back a tear now, for no matter how many words I write, there will always be more ways to express my gratitude for her. Whenever we do something similar to one another my dad always says, “apple, tree”. Like mother, like daughter, we walk through life together.
as love goes on,
natalie <3
