I’ve spent a lot of time lately looking at pictures, old and new, mostly of my Mom at various stages of her life: in childhood, as a young adult, as a young mother, and throughout the years of my own and my sisters’ childhoods and coming of age, until the photographic record chronicles my mother’s three daughters as we ourselves became mothers, and she a grandmother – a time too short; too soon over.
As I look through the photos, I pause often. I pause to smile, to weep, to remember.
I pause to talk to her again. To tell her I remember.
I remember you – the curly-haired girl I never knew:
The beautiful bride:
I remember you, Mommy; the beating heart of our loving family:
And now, my Mother, you live in photographs, but not in flesh. Now, you live in us: in these, our so similar voices, familiar gestures, remembered turns of phrase. You are a memory, a dream, a breath of embracing wind.
You will always be our Mother.