Remembering Mother

I remember my mother sitting in bed reading her Woman’s Day magazines. She would read the stories and begin weeping. She would call me in and say how she felt. She would point her finger to the story and then say something through sobs about how her own family didn’t treat her this way—didn’t show her this love. To some degree I know what she means now. My young mind possibly understood at some level way back then, but to reflect back and see her moved so deeply by a story, by words, by human life—when she herself was incapable of giving and receiving in that fuzzy way—it’s an image that I hold up with two fingers, to examine in the light, to feel love for her and to know that none of us—neither myself, nor my brothers were able to penetrate that deep coat of iron that she stood behind. She was dying, she knew it. We all knew it, but we didn’t want to believe.

This morning when I was on Yahoo! News, a story caught my eye: “Girl Risked Life to Save Drowning Boy.” A image of two rescuers holding the boy’s limp body with the great ocean in the background. I clicked to continue reading. As I continued, my stomach began getting that push and I began weeping. I was so touched by the young girl, whom, did not listen to her father’s pleas and instead did what she felt she needed to do.

This made me think of my mother—I felt like she probably did when she read her stories of real life—of risking something for someone you don’t even know. Humans are magnificent creatures and we are connected in ways that are both right there at the surface and even deeper—we are embedded and folded within all the waves of the ocean, undulating together in this sea—wonderful, mysterious sea.