Saturday, May 9, 2015

From One Mother to Another & a World of Others


Happy Mother's Day Eve

I borrowed this image from ESSENCE Magazine, without permission. What? You expected a photo of Erin, my mother and me? I wish. We're all a plane ride away from each other, but there's FaceTime and phone time tomorrow. 

The first lady is a mother. She has two girls just like my mother. Once upon a time. We were the imagined twins for five years, before a brother showed up. Until he did, Elaine and I were always separated by Mama when we shared a pew; there was always a body worth of space between us when we sat in the back seat of the family car. We were allergic to touching each other. Mama refused to do such an undignified thing as taking a switch along on trips, so the invisible line of demarcation that separated us like bars, prevented her from having to issue a single threat or any promise of a whipping between our destinations and return trip home. 

Erin was spared the drama/trauma that comes from having to share a life with a sibling. She missed out on a so much, like survival and defense as a result--such as learning to argue, win an argument, fight without fists, tattle with finesse, call shotgun . . . She got to blame me for her shortcomings that should rightfully fall on the shoulders of a brother or a sister. Most days she thanks me for her status as an only. I thank her for not being a twin. Or a triplet. I thank her for remembering how to write a line or three inside the cards she sends. I never tell her she should write more. We talk, text, Pin and share links almost every day. I'm happy knowing she knows how to address and stamp an envelope. I'm happy just knowing she has stamps. She remembers my address, and she knows better than to send me Happy Mother's Day greetings via e-mail. Yes, she knows better. Besides, her birthday is in June.

So. To all the mothers in the land, I'm sending Mother's Day Eve wishes ahead of the day. I wish you great expectations, in every way. Mothers rule. And daughters rock. I can't speak for sons, so perhaps it's a mother-of-a-male's turn to talk. Rhyme on. Write on. 

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