Madre

That's how she always signed her letters to me. Madre. Why Spanish? And she called me "Mousie".  Again with the why? Was I? ...mousey, I mean. How I wish she were still here so I could ask her.

There have been many Mother's Days spent without my mother, but I mentally celebrate her every year on this day as if she were still living .

That is not to say that I celebrate her only once a year; it is more like a daily, though sometimes fleeting, occurrence. She will pop into my mind, out of the blue, because of a sudden and surprising memory jolt. It could be a red mustang; how she enjoyed that car. It could be a beautful hat, maybe one with feathers; she loved to wear hats. It could happen as I drive down Franklin Avenue past the cemetery where she is buried. I always wave and say, "Hi, Mom." Sometimes a thought of her just pops into my head for no apparent reason. That's how much a part of me she is.

I hear women joke all the time about becoming their mothers, and I understand that, depending on the mother in question, can be a frightening thought. However, the notion appeals to me because I was lucky enough to have been mothered by a gentle nurturer, always so giving and sensitive to my needs.

In her final note to me, typed because she was no longer able to write, she carefully pluncked out,  "You have been a joy to me all my life...Madre". How amazingly lovely that she felt that way, kindly forgetting the times I sassed her or disobeyed her. So like her: always remebering the positives.

So, once again, I celebrate my beautiful mother, remembering her many intangible gifts to me, wishing that I had been given more time with her yet thankful for the time I had.