I often remind myself that my Mom is more than just her struggles and circumstances.
She carried me, gave me a brother. She was a wife, a stay-at-home Mom. Her motherly instincts haven’t left her even if they sometimes manifest through chaos.
She hates that I tweeze my eyebrows. She’ll come up and visit me without warning. She’s the best Scrabble player I know.
She taught me how to sew. Kept large photo albums. She loved crossword puzzles. Her coupon game was extraordinary.
She fostered my creativity. Allowed for me to paint with all the colors of the wind like Pocahontas intended.
She taught me how to swim, created spaces in our home for me to be carefree.
She wasn’t best cook but she accepted it. So did my Dad.
She cultivated my love for literature. Took me to library every chance that she could.
She enrolled me in ballet, in gymnastics, in Girl Scouts. She was okay when I rebelled.
She loved R&B. Had the hugest crush on Gerald Levert.
She made my Dad cry during their wedding because she was so beautiful. She lost a child.
She continues to love me through her madness. I hold on to her.
She’s my mom.
She’s 63 today.