My Mother

I have a difficult time thinking about my mother because she was such a huge part of my life until she died, and I often wish she were still around. She's the main reason I grew up with an open mind and the ability to accept people as they are. Even though she let her first mother-in-law convert her to the "born-again" version of Christianity, she never let the prejudices adhered to by that culture change her sense of fairness. She brought up her children to think the same way. 

She was an intelligent, loving and generous woman. She spent her time at home taking care of us, and every time school was cancelled she was happy, because she liked having us around. At night when she put us to bed, she told us stories that she had made up, stories that we all still remember. She taught us to love reading by example. She taught us to cook by letting us help her. She taught us to entertain ourselves by providing music and songs and inspiration. We all have wonderful memories of her.

When she became ill with what was later diagnosed as pancreatic cancer, we all took it hard. I myself never was convinced in my heart that she was going to die. Whenever I visited, she seemed fine and she would tell me that she was following her doctor's orders. She would also tell me that she was preparing my father for her death by teaching him how to cook simple meals and how to pay the bills. I listened to what I wanted to hear: that she was fine and following orders. It wasn't until after she died that the rest came back to me. My tears came much later.

I still miss her.