My Mom, My Very First Gift

The voice of my mother soars through cellphone towers, taps into words on the internet, shines through lighted white dreams, or dances from upstairs in our guest bedroom on a golden spring morning.

Her voice is like no other sound in my universe.

It breaks through all concepts of time, old age, of youth even—clinging to me, wrapping my soul in the velvet truth that I am not just Amy, a forty-five-year-old tired mom. But I am more. I am the child of my mom. I came here through her, and long ago she carried me, and she looked at me with hope. She held my neck so that it wouldn’t break, she fed me, and she sang to me. I don’t get to hear her sing very often anymore, because we are busy maybe, but still her voice often sounds joyful, like a sweet song would— joyful to hear my voice.

My mom smells like violets, silk, a hint of mint sometimes, or maybe lilly-of-the-valley. When I was running yesterday, I saw a large patch of these white bell-covered flowers, and it was like my mom was there, cheering for me, “Way to go Amy. Way to go.” Those lovely white bells rang in the breeze, reminding me of picking them with her, of inhaling their sweet scent, and smiling my full-toothed smile while she baked a pie that mixed hot apples into the thick air of our well-used kitchen. My mother’s scent reminds me that she is near, that she is the same person whom I must have smelled before I knew how to put ink on the page, way back when I was a tiny infant, snuggling into her warm flesh.

I must confess that I haven’t always been nice to my mom. She wouldn’t tell you that, but it is true. I have expected everything of her. I have asked for the impossible. I have demanded perfection, like I do of myself. I have criticized her. I have been jealous of her attention. I was not (and maybe still am not) an easy daughter. I have often been outspoken, I have been a perfectionist, highly sensitive, taken myself too seriously, and at times I have been a rebel. I have been dramatic, depressed, emotional, and I have never stopped pushing boundaries. Probably, I never will. I’m that grown-up girl who some moms might dread “managing.” I have not always, or even close to always, been a “good” daughter.

But today I might call my mom when I’m driving to a class and words like “love” and “proud” and “miss you,” fill the space of my long vehicle, through a Bluetooth connection. It is like she is riding next to me, steadying my hands a little, reminding me that though I am only me, only imperfect me— I am part of another. I'm not just me. I'm my mom's child. Though my life isn’t easy, and there are challenges that she cannot solve, I know that there is one person out there who is holding a spot for me. That spot is bigger than the empty seat beside me. Immeasurable, I suppose. It is a place in her heart that will be there for eternity. It will wait for me whether I raise three happy children, I publish award winning novels, I paint a hundred famous paintings, or I become “nothing” at all.

Moms like mine will forever see the value in me. And thank you God for this gift. Moms like mine simply ignore the flaws. Sometimes I have (snidely) called that "motherhood denial." But now I see that thousands of days ago, I came from a place of hope, of sparkling, magical goodness. I came from a place that believed my seed was worthy of life. That it was worthy of rising above “nothing” and would be born into this world to share “something” with all of you. I came from my mother. She was my very first gift. And so I celebrate her. I came from a place where God wanted me to start. It was a very good place.

Thank you God, for my mom— that woman, that soul, who will always be in me, and who will always hold a place for me, in her.