A striking, raven-haired beauty
steps out of a yellow taxi cab. I have been playing in the yard, but I stop
what I am doing and gravitate toward her. A breeze blows her long, curly hair
into her face and she shakes it out of the way with a toss of her head. She cradles a small bundle in her arms. I am curious why it is wrapped in a blanket
when it is so hot outside, and I want a peek at this thing. I watch my mama as she walks past me, a crowd
follows in her wake and I follow too.
I am three years old and this is
the earliest memory I have of my mother, the day she brought my baby sister
home from the hospital. Mama was twenty-five then; she is 84 now, and she is
still the most striking woman I know.
She still amazes me; I still follow in her wake.
* * *
A son needs advice. My carne guisada gets raves. My grandson asks
for a song or a story to go with our play.
None
of these actions are mine; I learned them from my grandmother.
Ene
lived with us during all my childhood.
She raised me while my mother worked, so her words pour out of my mouth;
her actions guide mine; how I interact with others are her influence. I imitate her and take the credit, but there
are days I wish she were here to give me even more guidance.
On
those days, I talk to the air knowing she hears me. I wait and I listen. What I
wouldn’t do to have her with me once again.
I miss her.
Happy
Mother’s Day, ladies.
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