You Only Get One

There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of my mother. Her beauty, her scent, her giving nature, the sound of her voice, the way she would look at me, and most of all her smile and the energy she would emanate when I visited her as if she were greeting me for the very first time.

She once told me that when she brought me home as a newborn from the hospital she spent three days holding me, looking at me, marveling that she had finally had “her girl,” the daughter she had longed for.

They say that sometimes we don’t know the full value of a treasure until we lose it. That certainly was the case with me and my mother, with whom I had a close but often stormy relationship. Perhaps it’s because we were alike in so many ways, with our stubborn pride and alternation between calm and a fiery temperament.

My mother grew up in Mexico in the 1930s, when the country was poverty-stricken. At the time women were not encouraged to either be independent or make their own life choices. However her mother, my Grandmother was the exception to the rule, and she took on a man’s role. She labored at her sewing machine, grew cactus and made Tequila, rode a horse, and had to fend for herself and her six children. My Grandmother had married a man who was college-educated. But the marriage didn’t last. When she fled to Mexico after living comfortably in Northern California, she had to bring up six children as a single parent. This was a particularly difficult role for her to take on, both financially and emotionally, because Mexico was, at that time, was a very traditional society. A household without a male to lead was considered an anomaly. Sometimes at night, during those hard times, she would whisper to my mother “I do not want you not to suffer like this, ever. I want you to be a successful woman. I know you can!” She said it so often, sometimes my mother dreamed the words in her sleep and woke up feeling stressed. This influenced her so much that she always said to me you have to be prepared to take care of yourself.

When my mother was a housewife she wanted to go to work, but my Father was against it. She then expressed an interest in going to school and by not following her instinct she regretted this decision all her life ---.

She told me that she would have wanted to study something having to do with finance, always good at math, she could turn numbers in her head.

I often complained to my mother about the pressures she put on me while I was growing up. We went from living very well where I was the spoiled Princess to a small house where I came home and was expected to start dinner for her. I was unprepared to take on that role. I disliked household tasks and resented her for the change that the divorce brought on. Not so much for the lifestyle but even more for being a broken family

I felt the shift immensely. Deeply depressed, it took me into my internal self where I began to use my creativity by drawing and writing as an escape from the sadness and disappointment I experienced.

Storytelling was ingrained in me by the stories my Grandmother narrated. But it was my mother’s influence that leads me to the pen. I never told her how important she was as a role model someone who I knew I could turn to if ever anything went wrong. Isn’t that often true with the people we are closest to, this awkward silence? Instead, I wrote over and over about strong women in difficult situations. Women who struggled hard to make it. Women who were lonely yet managed to take care of themselves and their dependents. And intelligent women that paid the price for expressing who they were. These stories were my silent homage to my grandmother and more so, my mother, and after each one was published, I gave her a copy.

I never saw those copies when I went to visit her. We didn’t discuss my writing, or the times I got published, or even how she was the biggest influence leading me to write. She did however tell me she was proud of me. Now I think we missed out. But perhaps it was a good thing, too. If she had expressed disapproval about my sometimes edgy themes or characters or told me she didn’t like my stories, it might have blocked me from writing. Perhaps she knew that.

My Mother with her Great Grand-Daughter

Like so many things she kept silent. It sometimes seemed as if she wasn’t there mentally when indeed she was miles ahead. My mother in her quiet dignity never spoke about her emotions like so many women do that become such a drain, or about being depressed, ill, or unhappy, and never did she utter a word about another person.

Nor did she did not indulge in anything frivolous or pointless. No, she was too pragmatic to waste her time. I admired her steadfastness. She engaged in and spoke of practical things; such as work, getting ahead, financial independence, truth, honor, and the enjoyment of finding pleasure in life.

She never was ill, and until the very end, she held her head up high, walked, and took pride in her appearance. Unlike many older women who neglect their hygiene and because of hormonal changes display masculine traits such as hoarse voices, hairy chins, and hard yellow nails, my mother never lost her femininity or sense of style. After she passed this life, I went through her things, what others would consider a heart-wrenching task, I considered it an honor. I kissed everything she had ever touched and embraced every item she had laid her hands on.

Then I found, in a trunk, my books and newspaper clippings. The dog-eared pages indicated that she’d read them many times. The mothballs with which she had layered the trunk to keep away insects indicated that she treasured them.

I keep that trunk in a sacred place. When the writing isn’t going well, when I’m stuck or disheartened, when I think I might never again be able to write anything worthwhile, I look at them. I hear my mother saying, “You are so smart, you can do anything, I know you can,” and I go on.