Tomorrow is Mother's Day; I await it with pleasure and anticipation, for I am a mother... I shall celebrate it early with my daughter, my dearest Siobhan. She will prepare an elegant brunch for two--feather-light muffins served with just-picked berries; fresh baked bread with homemade marmalade; luscious fruit with our own cheeses. We shall share it by the goldfish pond, in the cooling shade of a gnarled oak tree. We will dine among the flowers; soft conversation and gentle laughter will flow like the waterfall nearby. Like Siobhan herself, the mood will be light and happy.
I often marvel at my daughter--how anyone could be blessed with such physical beauty, and have a beautiful spirit, as well. There is no vanity, no meanness in Siobhan; no jealousy, nor envy. Siobhan is Goodness and Light, Kindness and Compassion. She is a gentle soul with a tender heart. She laughs easily and often; I admire her attitude and her spirit. Siobhan is brave and true, a Warrior in all that she believes in. No one could be blessed with a better daughter or a truer friend.
Tomorrow is Mother's Day; I await it with dread and trepidation, for I have a mother... I shall visit her in the afternoon, bearing gifts and flowers. Silently and with a frown, she will add the flowers to her growing collection, and wordlessly toss the opened gifts onto the floor. We shall sit in her formal living room upon her nicest chairs; with disapproval, she will condemn me for my weight,ridicule my clothes, and criticize my hair. She will speak with fondness of her beauty in younger days-- her jet black hair, her smooth olive skin, her flashing dark eyes, her tiny waist. She will boast that even now she does not look her age--but Time has taken its toll. She will complain of aches and pains, real and imagined; she will complain about her children, now grown. She will find fault with her house, her furniture, her clothes; all will be less than she deserves. My mother will berate and humiliate my father; he will quietly withdraw into that far-away place within himself, a place she cannot reach. Like Mother herself, the mood will be dark and bitter.
My mother is a complex creature; for years I have tried to understand her. Although she is often cruel, I love her for the simple fact that she is my mother. She did give birth to me; she fed me and clothed me as a child, although she did it grudgingly. She is what she is. My mother thinks that physical beauty is the key to happiness, and beauty is all that really matters in her world. She has spent her entire lifetime obsessing over her looks--constantly struggling to remain young, desperately trying to hang on to her beauty. Throughout the years, my mother has used a mountain of face creams, eye creams, wrinkle creams...gallons of hair color, pounds of makeup. But still Time marches on. Reality creeps up on her, leaving insecurity and doubt. She resorts to insulting and ridiculing others, so that she might feel better about herself. Doing so publicly has left a lot of hurt feelings and enemies in her wake. Her obsession with her own beauty has consumed her life, leaving no time for friendships or hobbies. It has blinded her to the true beauty around her--in all of nature, and in the faces and hearts of others. It has left no room for kindness or compassion--or love. It has made her mean and bitter; still I pity her. Beauty is fleeting-- when it is gone, what will be left but emptiness and misery?
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