My mum is currently in the Cotswalds living out everyone’s Bronte/Austen/Potter fantasy, and I miss her! I wrote this little piece about a rare moment in my adolescence during which I actually allowed her into my bedroom. And past the walls of angst and you’ll-never-understand-me-ness. Love you mum. Thanks for instilling an appreciation for all things beautiful and strong and funny and real in me. Happy Mother’s Day.
My mother joins me in my little bedroom at the top of the stairs. I’m on my bed, which is near the window that looks out into the massive catalpa tree. My room is nestled in the big plate-sized leaves and old gnarled branches, and during storms, the tree rocks me to sleep as it rattles and moans. Because of its dangerous proximity to the house, my parents are always hinting that one day it will need to be cut down. I’ve threatened to chain myself to the tree.
I sort through my bead collection, putting the jumbled mess of colors to order, separating tiny glass seed beads from chunky, opaque porcelain beads, shiny scarlet from dusky turquoise. My sister and I go door to door in our little 5 house neighborhood selling our “dangly” earrings. Without saying anything, my mother joins me on the bed, and helps me sort.
She gently fingers the crumbling piles of color. Her hands are well molded and remind me of classical statues, in which women’s hands are their greatest accessories. Her tapered nails deftly separate the marigold orange from the carnation pink, and as I watch, the quiet and elegant simplicity of her movements make me deliciously drowsy. My sensations are blanketed, and hints of shivers run down my back. Neither of us speaks, and I sink into the passing moment of tranquility like a warm bath.
