My Mother is …
The familiar face that emerges from the crowd when I am feeling either uncertain or have reason to celebrate.
Mum is the truck that drives deliberately along the hedgerow, intent on her mission to get food to her family out working in the fields.
She is the stern eye that met my 10-year old glance when things were getting out of hand at the kids’ table. (I better put a lid on it.)
Mum’s the patience that waits dinner into the long hours of the evening until her family comes in from the barn.
My mother is the crisp, line dried smell of clean sheets that I crawl into after a long hard day mowing hay.
She is the new toothbrush, cleaned sneakers and tidied bedroom floor.
Mum is the drop everything and listen — when I am ready to let go of all the awful details that come spilling out from the inside.
She is the phone call I forgot to make on her birthday … and she understands.
Mum’s the familiar smell I remember when I nuzzled into her neck and cried, comforting me and telling me that it would all be better in the morning.
She is the hurry up and wash it so I can wear it to school because I forgot to tell her that I needed it the night before.
My mother is the “get to work” push I needed when I had my first heartbreak.
Mum’s the warm apple pie smell that greeted me when I walked through the door after being away to college that first fall.
Mum is the meal planner, grocery store runner and dinner maker.
She is the one that is always on the bench cheering me on and the only one who bolsters me up after a bad game.
She’s Neil Diamond, Hooked on Classics and Patsy Cline playing on the cassette deck in the old gray station wagon.
She is the ladybug nightie, duck shoes and umbrella on a sunny day in June. (Oh Mum, how embarrassing.)
Mum is always the person to turn the stove off to go chase heifers, jump on the 4-wheeler to find someone, or go to town for parts because we needed it an hour ago.
Mum is the sewing lesson that I refused to take but wished I had after the ironing board went crashing down … oh, I could be such a brat.
She is the lawn mower, gardner, and the daisies on the kitchen table.
She is the fresh air that blows through the house on the first warm spring day and the Tuna Wiggle over saltines for dinner on a Sunday night.
But what my mother really is, is the person whom I call home. The person I look for in the crowd, and the one whom I feel completely able to fall apart in front of because she is the ONLY one who knows that it will all be okay.
Heart, heart, heart … and a big “Thank you” to my mother.
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