She taught me that a whisper and a tear could be exchanged for a promise: I can still hear the soft <thups> of love and faith that fell from her eyes dotting the cover of her Bible, punctuating her quiet, tender prayers on my behalf, hanky gossamered from years of wringing and dabbing in the church on the hill, tucked safely between Psalms and salvation.
She’s the drop-everything, duck-your-head-and-hustle when it’s do or die, fourteen-options-for-dinner, Sunday School warrior woman in sweater sets, pearls, and applique. She smells like Merle Norman, Tresemme and Clorets. There’s perfume in the mix somewhere, but these other scents, to me, are more distinctly my MOMMA.
She’s the face that defined beautiful for a little tow-headed, button-nosed boy a lifetime ago, hidden behind delicately creased knuckles in a million games of “Peep-Eye.” She’s the naughty chuckle stifled behind eight sliver-nailed fingertips. The tremor in her shoulders, the rolling side eye inform me my quip has landed safe in humor’s harbor; she’s the quiet in the eye of the storm—’til she’s NOT—then we’d ALL better run for cover.
She’s a perfect pan o’ biscuits, presented pipin’ hot on a crispy-edged potholder, blackened, caramelized and crunchy from the million other fresh-from-the-oven dishes she’s put in front of her chubby youngster, those precious Teflon hands still floured and buttered from the kneading and rolling, cutting, pinching, and placing, a greasy dollop atop each, baking crown to golden brown. She’s shown me through countless calories that a Southern mother’s love is often expressed most effectively in a meat ’n three. Or four. Or more. And a sorghum-slathered cloud of carbohydrate.
She made it clear all she’s ever wanted for me was happiness. And safety. And for me to be good to folks. And I do my best. She gave me the world and all she asked in return was a postcard to let her know I was OK, the occasional tale of how I made the most of an opportunity to help along the journey, jotted in the margin near the postmark.
Donnie Sue, my sweet Mom, I never leave home without a pocketful of memories of your whispers, tears, biscuits and blessings. I see your eyes in the mirror each morning and taste your wisdom on my heart when I need guidance. You’re the breath behind my laughter and the white in my knuckles when I fold my hands to pray. Grateful for you today and every day.
Love you. PFY