The definition of a “Mother” is in a rainbow of colors – not just black and white. You can look it up on the countless dictionaries both online and in print. Nothing truly defines the title as someone who redefines the title.
I have been blessed with the love of such women – the reason my psychologists have always explained my love and fascination with the fairer sex. The physical beauty, the emotions, the love that radiates from their eyes, the care put into each meal, each hug, each tuck in and kiss goodnight.
Memories abound – my mother holding my hand tight, my mother playing catch with me because no one else would, my mother staring at me across the hospital room with a look of concern not masked well enough, my mother looking at my reaction when she shows me the two tickets to go see the Met’s at Shea. My mother as my date when we go see Elton John in 1981 and Billy Joel in 1983 – I walked proud with her and wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to share it with me. My mother finding a way to prepare feasts on a weekly basis while working ten hours, cooking daily dinners and ensuring the house was meticulous. My mother always there with love, a hand to hold and a shoulder to cry on. Also she let me play with her slippers as I placed my Star Trek dolls in them and pretended they were mini space ships.
Mementos from our past – proof that what we seem to recall actually did occur – become scarce as we age. Places where memories were made, love sealed and friendships cemented are knocked down and replaced by condominiums, banks or pharmacies.
“Didn’t we used to sit right there and speak for hours?” A simple question from an old friend.
“Yes, I had a crush on you back then – did you know that?” I tell her.
“Oh that was another lifetime, Freddy; I don’t even know if that ever really happened.”
“Which part?” I ask her but the space where we once sat and I fell in love is now a Bank – no proof of our initials we once carved on the tree that was cut down and taken away so many years ago.
But mothers, they remember everything and somehow always have proof of their existence. They remember where this scar in back of the leg came from, the girls who broke our hearts, the letters written in apology for our bad behavior or insensitivity and of course all of our favorite meals cooked exactly how we like it.
Mother’s, moms, grandmas, great grandma’s – the love they constantly impart on us – the obsession with our happiness and safety – the sense of comfort when we walk into their home. The aroma of the place – baking, cooking, something going on all the time – everyone’s best friend and confidant. That’s Mom.
Freddy Zalta 