I forget to tell my Mother how beautiful she is.
And how glad I am to share her almond-shaped eyes.
I forget to tell her that I cherish the rare compliment, “You look like your Mom.”
Because we both know Dad’s phenotype seems to dominate my features.
I forget to tell her the redness she sees covering her skin when she looks in the mirror is invisible when she smiles or laughs. I forget to tell her how her body amazes me, with its strength and resilience. The way it fights each day to keep her here with us.
I forget to tell my Mother the gray hairs she is beginning to notice framing her face, remind me of the many moments we have lived together, and prompt me to embrace the unknown number of days that are ahead.
I’ve never told her how I’ve always loved the way she can pull off plum eyeliner. And how in that well-worn sweatshirt—the coral one with holes in the elbows—she radiates a comfortable beauty I’d choose over the appearance of a top model any day.
I forget to tell my Mother how important her existence is.
She is the reason these lungs breathe deeply at the hint of pine or freshly baked bread.
I forget to remind my Mother that her very existence is shaping mine.
That her existence is necessary for this world to be better than it was before she arrived.
I forget to tell my Mother I’m glad to share bits of her sassy, independent personality.
Mom, can I just say again how grateful I am for the countless hours you spent sewing ballet shoes, curling my hair, and fixing sequins for an endless amount of recitals and performances. Thanks for shouting that familiar cat-call I heard as every curtain was drawn.
Thank you for trying to help me with my math homework growing up (though we’re both a little hopeless in that area), and for making all of my arts and crafts projects way cooler than the other kids’.
Thanks for listening to my celtic music when you’d rather be fist pumping to Meghan Trainor or Justin Timberlake, and for the memories of road trips and birthday adventures up and down the east coast. As I write this I’m listening to Foy’s, Wild Swans on the Lake, and remembering our last drive through Maine’s backroads searching for maple glazed, apple cider donuts, as the car kicked up the colored leaves of late September.
I forget to tell you, Mom, that I look often at the right-hand corner of my left palm. You know the mole that matches the one you have in the very same place? Should I ever have a daughter, I hope she bears that mark, too. The one that connects us, reminding us we are of the same.
Thank you for being a constant that I can lean back on.
For being steady when things begin to feel overwhelming.
Thank you for standing, unwavering, in my corner.
Memaw, the support you’ve always given in the big decisions and the transitions of my life, have meant more than the world to me.
One day, I hope I have the same courage you did to form two new lives and teach them about the world. I hope I can extend grace to old friends the way I have seen you do time and again. I hope I love my family with the selflessness you consistently display.
Mom, I hope I have the confidence to exercise the creativity you passed along to me. That the passionate spirit I have inherited from you will push me to live a courageous and full life; one of risk and adventure, one that doesn’t settle for mediocre or good enough, but one that would make you proud.
And just a few more things, Mom; all of these are just pieces of what make you beautiful. Your beauty runs deeper than the surface of your skin; it leaks into the way you love, the words you say, and it has changed the lives you’ve encountered. Your life and love have crafted me into a better human being than I’d be without you.
Happy Mother’s Day Mom, you-total-babe-you!
Love you forever,
Toria
