A Birthday Tribute to my mother, fixed in death at 42, but living on in my heart at 64: Her name was Ida Jane. Carnations were her favorite flower. She was an artist and loved Jesus. There was nothing of note about her life. She didn’t change the world. If you were to walk by her, her delicate feminine features that were enigmatic in origin would grab you by the heartstrings and would play you her enlivened, yet tortured soul song. While every picture I have of my mother perished in a house fire one year after her death, I remember her perfectly. She was of short stature with a timid countenance. She was delight in the flash of her perfect, bright smile. Her dainty lips were her favorite shade of cream-sickle-orange, her personal signature. She always left the natural brown line of her lips exposed. Her nose was a fresh picked summer strawberry, her eyes chocolate bonbons. Her hair was an array of bloodlines. It glistened with German reds and browns and smooth Cherokee roots that sat with pride against the backdrop of the voodoo of nappy ends. Her skin was the vibrancy of the golden sun. The sweetness of her spirit added a special hint of ethereal wonder to the air around her. She was my mama and I, her special girl. She desired to see the beauty in all life, the value in all people. She rooted for the underdog, crying freely at their stories of gain and loss. She was the only authentic source of encouragement in my life and sacrificed her own life so that I could have mine. Mom never got to do anything she wanted to do. Her ears were never even pierced. In her enslaved penance on the outside, holding onto religion with a white knuckle grip, the life she never lived ravaged her from the inside out, leaving her riddled with guilt and cancerous tumors that cried for her attention to self-love. If I were to sit face to face with my mom and talk to her, sharing with her the woman I am today, I would proclaim that I am already in heaven. I would exhort that the streets of gold that are here beneath my feet are a state of mind and not a destination. I would tell her that I can fly, and that my heart song could raise the dead. I would tell her that womanhood is the greatest treasure, the highest art of God. I would speak alchemy and transcendence, breathing in the ethers and seeing beyond time and death. But when I was little, and my mom came to me for validation, as she often did, the only words I knew at the time were “You’re the best mama in the world and I love you so much and you’re my best friend.” Happy Birthday, Mama. You would have been 64 today, the 27th of December.
Posted on: Sat, 27 Dec 2014 20:51:57 +0000
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015