Mother of Mine
I begin to ponder every part of her, the large portions that are obvious, and the tiny pieces that everyone else seems to overlook. I reminiscence about every moment of splendor and wonder, times when I was compelled to just stare. I start to deliberate on what I should reveal initially; I am confused about what her best aspects are. Her appearance is where I will start.
I observe the long swirls of hair, the highlight of sand and shine of gold among the tones of light chocolate; distinguishing the way it flows and curls gracefully down her back and across her shoulders. I am entranced by the distinguished arch of her eyebrows and the fullness of the lashes beneath them. I glimpse at her nose, the perch for lenses when she curls up with a book. I am able to witness the tiredness in her eyes after a difficult day at work. They look so dull and weary after those long days, but how they sparkle when she wakes. Her gleaming orbs, jade mixed with the pureness of emerald, the flecks of earth and gold, they seem to outshine the sun. I notice the simple beauty in her smile, the way her eyes crinkle and she flushes only slightly, when her lips part and she lets out her happiness. I spot the dignity in her stature. I perceive the ivory of her flesh, the blotches of red when she's angry or gloomy. I see the way each wrinkle of her garments somehow accents to her figure; I almost feel the smoothness of her skin.
I feel her velvet skin, the softness of her arms when she hugs me. I melt into her embrace and feel the warmth radiating from her very being. I finger her hair gently, running my hands through her mane of curls and tangles. I scrunch and flick at the waves. I rub her back slowly, then faster scratching and needing into the itchy spots. I stroke the roughness of her feet. I trace the cracks and incisions slowly. I press down gently pressuring the toughness of her heels, trying to cure her sore and aching feet. I wiggle between her toes and squeeze each one. I handle her hands carefully also, with the delicateness of her fingers and tender flesh of them. I press every wrinkle and fold and texture in her fabrics and as she holds me close I can barely make out the beauty of her scent on her skin.
The fragrance of newly dried clothes, the whiff of the dryer sheets and detergent still lingering is what comes to mind when I think of her scent. It's the combination and the clarity of water and clean linen; the peacefulness of a running stream in the coolness of a wood. It's the smell of rain and earth, like the essence of dew in the morning, falling off of the vibrant petals of tulips and daisies and roses. It's the light floral perfume of fresh cut flowers and it's me sniffing my way into the kitchen when dinner is being prepared. It's the aroma of stew in the Crockpot, or potatoes being fried in a skillet. It's my stomach rumbling in protest right now at the recollection of all those scents and wondrous thoughts.
I taste the crunchy lettuce and carrots, along with the fluffiness of an occasional egg, and softness of the kidney beans in her kidney bean salad. I sample her home made French fries, the pop of grease still on them. Then I test the perfection of her Mexican chicken, the tender chicken with the snap of the chips and creamy cheese along with billions of spices, I believe I'm about to go into a frenzy at the memory of it. I bite some spaghetti and slurp up the wet noodles into my mouth. The sauce sprays the inner corners of my mouth with tomato and meaty flavor, exploding out without waiting for me to chew. I then snack on chips and cheese dip, letting the cheese drip on my plate just so I can scoop it up in another chip. Last Sunday she made soup and it was completely gone within minutes. The softness of the boiled cabbage combined with the juicy chicken and wild rice, not to mention the delectable broth it was all in - it was amazing. All of her savory soups, fresh dishes, scrumptious sides, and decadent desserts fly across my memories in a haze. My mouth waters as I call the flavor of all her wonderful foods into the front of my mind. All of these scents and tastes and memories might send me into the kitchen at this very moment.
Not only can I taste her lovely food but I hear her humming while she cooks. I notice the coolness in her whispers as she hums to herself, the fleeting ruminants of a melody. When she belts out a song in the church choir, I can feel the power out it. I hear her bubbly voice when she's excited, and when it cracks when she cries and the rage when she's angry. I listen to her elegant flow of letters and words and phrases how the difference of her tones changes her pitch and volume, how she speaks is like a bird calling out at the first morning light. It is the thought of the trees swaying in the wind, somehow creating their own tune. I listen to the sound of her scolding me, her menacing tone flaring out in all directions. I heed her warnings about the troubles and terrors of life (and cooking, and boys). I learn from the music she plays as we clean house. I notice the clink of the dishes as we put them away and the sizzle or bubble or slurp as she cooks meals.
So now I've stopped pondering and the memories are fading down into a soft little whisper
falling back into the depths of my mind. I feel empty without all the words and pictures inside my head, but they are here not threatening to get out anymore. I stare and stare at nothing until I realize I don't have to rely on memories, or thoughts, or the remnants of dreams, because she is here. My mother is a kaleidoscope of colors, a symphony of sounds, and a kitchen guru all rolled into one. If you don't believe me, just come on over and take a gander at the wonderful world of Kelly.