Velociworld

MOTHER'S DAY

What does one do of a Mother's Day when one's Mom is peat, of the ages? Reminesce, drink, reminesce. Take no small measure of joy in watching one's daughters minister to their mommy. There is certainly luxury in that.

And yet I find myself inconsolable at times on Mother's Day. Whatever humanity, and compassion, my boorish frame possesses I owe to my mother. She was a gem, a brilliant and remarkable woman. Loving to fault, kind and generous of nature. Our house was always filled with kids, because everyone loved my mother. She had the knack of making every child feel welcome, and beloved. No small gift, that.

My siblings will tell you that my mother always kept a special place in her heart for me. They resented it. I don't know that that is true, perhaps she felt some measure of remorse for so hideously naming me. I personally think she was incapable of playing favorites.

My mother struggled mightily to find her way. She was blessed with a nice home and hearth after a brutish Depression-era childhood in South Georgia, and always reached out, strived. College courses into her seventies, painting and sculpture when I was a boy, hula lessons, calligraphy. And always the kind and heartfelt compassion for you, for your spouse, for your children. Never a mean bone in that body.

As my mother lay on her deathbed, incapable of speech, she smirked at me, and wagged her finger at me. She was saying You are better than you act. I love you. Be a man. Straighten up. She did everything but call me a little rapscallion, a little pissant. But I knew what she meant. It cut me to the quick. It broke my heart.

But, then, that was the point, wasn't it?

I miss my mommy, dammit.