My Mother's Face
I am often told that. In looks, mannerism, even my laugh. As a teenager, I didn't see it. Didn't want to. Mom was, well, mom. I wanted to be me. Wanted to look like myself. I distinctly remember the first time I did see.
I'd just gotten a hair cut. Chopped it all off in a fit of anger after a break-up. I sat in my car and glanced in the mirror. My mother's face looked back at me.
|My mom and me.|
Hers was usually the last face I saw before going to bed at night.
Hers was the one I missed when I fell off the swing at school, right into a mud puddle that covered my pants.
The one I called out for in the night after a bad dream.
Her kind eyes were the ones I longed to see when my heart broke for the first time. And the last.
|Mom with one of my brothers. Marc?|
My mother has a way of 'lighting up' whenever she sees her children. It's a welcome the pierces to my very soul. No matter what the world says or sees in me, she sees only the best, and it is reflected in the smile that is just for me.
|Mother's Day 1975|
L-R: Ellen, Heidi, Me
Seated- Mom holding Matt, Dad holding Marc
My mother cries easily. This, too, I have inherited from her. Tears mark her face for the sad and the joyful. Her heart is there, mirrored in her face. She is an open book. One that is filled with a love and commitment that has spanned a lifetime. Her face may not be youthful, but the lines are evidence of the chapters of her life. Chapters that she has filled with beautiful memories and adoration for her family.
I am like my mother. It shows in my face.