Behind all your stories is your mother’s story, because hers is where yours begins.
Mitch Albom For One More Day
I always thought my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. I knew she was. She didn’t look or talk or act like any of my friends’ mothers.
She was exotic with her dark eyes and British accent. The way she ran the household would put June Clever to shame. No, mom didn’t iron in pearls but the house was European tidy and organized. She always made sure that she looked lovely when dad came home. Dinner was always on the table and there was always, always dessert. Yummmm.
She had a spine of steel and a devil-may-care attitude. I guess that after enduring bombs dropping on your neighborhood for several years, everything else is a trifle.
She was quick to laugh. Not afraid to shed some tears. Ready to cuddle an upset child with warmth and soft there there nows.
Yes, we had our disagreements as any mother and daughter will. She was never afraid to voice her opinion but was also willing to overlook some of my ignorant decisions, too. Oh, well, I got smarter. Maybe we both did.
Even in her final days of illness she was able to find a joke to make us both laugh. Boy, what dignity! What an example.
I miss my mom and wish she could see what what I’m doing these days. I can only hope to pass along some of her values to my children and grandchildren. I think she’d be pleased.
No one worries about you like your mother, and when she is gone, the world seems unsafe, things that happen unwieldy. You cannot turn to her anymore, and it changes your life forever. There is no one on earth who knew you from the day you were born; who knew why you cried, or when you’d had enough food; who knew exactly what to say when you were hurting; and who encouraged you to grow a good heart. When that layer goes, whatever is left of your childhood goes with her.
―Adriana Trigiani, Big Stone Gap