Our father was easier to define. For one, he wore a uniform, with silver crosses on the shoulders, and the hat. God’s man. Got it. He shot hoops with us; played soccer. Athlete, check. He’d sit at the piano, pull out the trumpet. Musician, check. He biked, and ran, and fished, and camped. He worked on cars. We watched him every Sunday, preach from the pulpit. We defined him by his actions.
I remember my mother in the kitchen, or curled on a couch reading. I remember her as passive. But she sewed, and cross-stitched, and painted, and biked. She camped with us. She walked in the mornings with her New Balance sneakers. Did she seem passive in comparison to my father? Or did she seem passive because her interests were, principally, feminine?
My mother is less quiet now. She leads a bike club, and heads committees. She’ll talk your arm off and holler down the hole. Sometime in her fifties, she let go a little. Gave up makeup. Chopped her hair. Went sporty. She renders opinions, and much of the time, they’re her own. She has tools, and fixes things.
She has evolved, hasn’t she, or is it my viewpoint? Which has changed?
The hardest thing about losing my mother is missing how she evolved. I mean, there’s no doubt that I have. No doubt that I am also a different person for the lack of her. But I speculate about her journey.
I love to hear about Maricris’ mother — her changes, her mellowing; things I can almost see. And I like to hear about your mother. I patch these silhouettes over mine.
Funny that what’s best about now is that I not only anticipate change, but I expect it.
That is a marvelous gift, isn’t it, to expect change. When I was younger, I thought so much was a permanent state. Now it all seems fleeting. And more beautiful.
All fleeting. Yes, absolutely. What’s that great Ani Difranco line? “We never see things changing; we only see them ending.”
To go from seeing the end to seeing the change, that really is beautiful. That, I think, is wisdom.