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Journey into art

art , sculpture , humor


"Every Woman Is Somebody's Daughter"

Posted by Val Enders on November 22, 2012 at 1:35 PM

This morning, as usual, my first stop was the bathroom to wash my face and get ready for the day ahead. I stared into the mirror, but what I saw was not me looking back, but my mother! I knew that someday it would happen. Occasionally, Mom would announce in a loving voice that someday I would be just like her, because she was turning into her mother. When I was younger, people would comment on how much I looked like my Mom. I was sixteen, she was forty six, and I was unhappy with those comments. I couldn’t see the resemblance at all back then. Gradually as time passes I seem to take on more and more of my mothers’ traits. I remember her telling me that she couldn’t handle the noise the kids made, and suddenly I too, am shell shocked by the racket that the grandkids sometimes make when they are having too much fun. Sometimes without warning, I suddenly stagger off to the left. Not much, but just a little, like her. I find myself liking more of the same things, paying more attention to the style of shoes, or talking about some of her favorite subjects. I’ve started collecting some of her favorite knick knacks, and am even taking some of the same medications as her. I’ve taken up reading more, one of her favorite pastimes. I get my sense of humor from her. For example one day while we were out walking she helplessly “toot” “tooted” her way along, due to the adverse effect of her medication. Looking behind her she admonished her rear end by scolding “OH shut up! “I wasn’t talking to you!” We cracked up! I also get my grey hair, pointy feet, wrinkled hands, and love of life from her. She taught me to cook, and I make her favorite recipes, although some don’t really turn out as good as hers. This month it will be eight years since my mother has passed away. She died suddenly of pancreatic cancer two months after being diagnosed. I thank God that she had come to live at my home three years previously. We were the best of friends, and I was there to hold her in my arms when she left this world for better things. It was a privilege to be her daughter. Now this morning, and every morning when I get up, look in that mirror, and see that I am indeed turning into my mother, my heart swells with pride, love, and gratitude. I can only try to be a daughter that she would be proud of. It’s a tough act to follow. Call your Mother if you can. She is waiting to hear your voice.

Categories: Editorials published on Northern Star

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