Despite my longtime love affair with words we’re now having a tug of war. I am seriously considering a divorce. Yes, my mother was patient, understanding, and loving. But, those don’t adequately describe all and who she was. The words sound flat even to my own ears and don’t touch any part of my soul. She deserves better than that.
My memories of her are as vivid as the colors on a palette. Oh, If only I were an artist. But, I’ve been told I’m lethal with a brush. I get paint in my hair and in-between my toes. Worse, I go outside the lines. I blame everything on my “free spirit”.
Determined, I envision a blank canvas. I close my eyes and see an explosion of colors. That’s what my momma was, spontaneous and electric. My fingers twitch as I see splashes of reds and burnt oranges across a magnificent blue sky. It mirrors her bold and beautiful spirit. Her gift in understanding people made her appear more streetwise than what she was and it hid her innocence and vulnerability.
I’ve sheathed her frame in a shimmering light green for her ability to put herself in other people’s shoes and having a compassionate and forgiving heart. Her presence offered tranquility and peace; Courage and strength. I feather a touch of gold to her aura for her unwavering faith. The sun glows on her raven hair, softening her features. Her eyes the color of a midnight sky sparkle with intelligence and humor.
My excitement builds as I discover the textures and the layers that compose her identity and her true essence. She looked like a goddess, but had physical flaws and human imperfections. There’s a beauty mark on her chin and eye teeth that were never straightened. The swirl of her sarcastic tongue could slice the air once her Italian temper flared. But no matter what I may have done to cause her anger, she was quick to offer me a kiss of forgiveness to replace it. Her devotion and her desire to protect made it difficult for me to explore independence until my rebellion in my early twenties. Her fear of my getting hurt compounded my own insecurities until I was able to recognize and feel comfortable with who I was and who I wanted to be. Ironically, I raised both my children the same way. I suppose in the end, I trusted her judgment more than my own which says a lot about her influence on my life. Good, bad, or indifferent, her heart and her motives were always in the right place. She could dance around most with her wit and charm, but truth and integrity molded her life. Her daily challenges were given to God and she embraced Him with humble gratitude for the blessings in her life.
Throughout her journey, stars were always in her eyes, but there was also a touch of sadness in them too. The songs she wrote remained hidden in a dusty closet never to be heard; there were words unspoken of dreams that were never fulfilled and loves that were lost. Yet, there was always laughter in her humble home. My children and I could tell you quite a few stories but two will have to suffice.
My mother did not mix well in a kitchen although when she was in the right mood she loved baking cakes. But, no matter what kind of a cake she made, they all tasted the same in the end. She solved the issue by using food coloring. She called them her rainbow cakes.
Although she was blessed in having many friends, she created one of her own and when she’d visit, she’d tell us stories about what Sarafina did that day. She’d roar with laughter and if anyone else would have heard her they would have insisted she be put away. Being a little off-center myself and guilty of creating my own characters, I thought her to be quite normal if not a little eccentric.
She didn’t want me to worry about her in her later years; she insisted she was happy and content, though I felt she deserved so much more. I wish I had the power to go back and change some things and my heart cries out, “I didn’t have a magic brush. “
Now, as I add the final touches to her painting, I feel compelled to sprinkle it with Angel dust. My tears involuntarily spill on her canvas because I still miss her so much. I watch transfixed as my tears merge and melt on a mouth that suddenly explodes into a megawatt smile. She offers me a sly wink, shakes her shoulders and flutters her new found wings. She turns her head and blows me a kiss before flying away. In the distance, her sweet voice echoes my name: “Jeanette…Jeanette, I’m Home.”
