And here is why.
Today, August 20th, is my mother's birthday.
|My mother at nineteen.|
How I miss that 'Mona Lisa' smile.
And since my mother died in March, there hasn't been a day where I haven't longed to hear her voice, to hold her hand, or to sit with her.
|One of my favorite of her: confident, healthy, happy.|
I wish she were here to say that to me.
I have said this before. I am now a motherless daughter, yet in so many ways because I am my mother's daughter, I am never without her. She is an echo in my heartbeat; a catch in my voice when I say a certain phrase; in the way I hold my hands or gesture when I talk; in my brashness and boldness; in my sarcastic quips and cynicism; in my ability to eat books for breakfast and belch quotes out at the most inopportune times; in how I am insecure and unable to take a compliment, and I am always suspect when one is given. She is found in every sunrise I see, whether at Stella Point on Mt. Kilimanjaro, or the one I see when I run. She is in the mirror's reflection when I wear a piece of her jewelry.
And I find, yet again, this is woefully inadequate and incomplete. That all the words I wanted to say have slipped away. That to you I have not described the woman who when I was a teenager dyed her hair orange, and when she was 65 got a tattoo, who wore from wrist to elbow large turquoise and silver jewelry pieces, believed that aliens built Machu Pichu, knew every piece of dialogue to Casablanca, who loved to mix tang with her Lipton ice tea (and spike it with white wine upon occasion-don't ask), who adored Frieda Kahlo and Georgia O'Keeffe, who ran red lights in her mini-cooper, loved shopping at TJ Maxx, and styled every room in her house as if it were going to be featured on HGTV.
My mother. My friend.
Frances Elizabeth "Beth" Garland Ledden.
Brilliant. Beautiful. Blustery. Bossy. Bold.
My words are inadequate. My thoughts incomplete. There is so much more to say, yet what more can be said? And I know that after I post this, I will think of another thousand things to say, another thousand memories will wash over me, and another, and another, and another. And none of it will ever be enough, or right, or perfect, or measure up in any way to any thought in my head. I will continue to bumble and stumble. To not ever have the right haircut. To not ever be able to explain why I run. To not ever say I love you loud enough.
And maybe all I now know is only this:
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)