Mutterliebe

Lying on my mother’s bed, snuggled up beside her, I couldn’t help that the tears flowed down onto her new woolen sweater.  Her chin trembled as soft words fell from her lips.  Her gentle hand stroked my head and shoulders lovingly as she related to me the stories of her past.  The pain of her experience coursed through my body, tingling up my spine and pulsing through my veins.  Her poor, afflicted soul whispered to me the horrors of the neglect she faced as a child.  I choked on my tears when I braved a glance up at her calm face.  Ringlets of golden-brown hair fell around her angelic face which was marred only by her doleful past.  Wrinkles from too much crying and not enough laughing creased her forehead and encircled her eyes.  How could someone not love her?

            All this last week, I’ve spent so much time with my dear mother.  She had been helping me redo my bedroom despite the huge list of projects she had been juggling.  She so willingly taught me the proper use of plaster and sanders; she showed me specific techniques to use the paint roller while she did the wearisome task of painting the edges and corners with a small brush.  At the end of the day, the smell of fresh paint still clinging to my clothes, I would crawl into bed with her and listen to her stories.  I loved to hear the quirky stories of my older brothers and I giggled when she told me of what I was like as a child.  Though I delight to hear her relate these happy times, a solemn respect settles over my mind as her words of dire trial touch my heart.

My mother: Age sixteen

            My childhood memories of this strong woman are bitter-sweet.  I recall the day I first learned to whistle.  She had driven away from our country home hours before I’d risen from bed.  After her divorce, she knew she’d have to support her family so she committed herself to drive for an hour or more every day to go to university.  Of course, her decision to become a nurse was both wise and courageous but for several years, my brothers cared for me while she was at school.  The boys had given me a bowl of breakfast cereal and, for whatever reason in my six-year-old mind, I decided to blow on the cold Cheerios.  This resulted in me whistling through my lips for the very first time.  I was so excited to’ve finally accomplished this that I ran out to the thick forest on our property and climbed the ladder to the tree fort my brothers had made from old deck boards.  I sat on the peeling paint and whistled to my heart’s content.  For just that moment, I’d forgotten my fear of heights.  Once the sensation of acquiring this new skill wore off I found myself stuck on the fort, too petrified to climb down.  My brothers offered to help me down but there was only one person whose assistance I would allow- my mother’s.  It was hours before she was due to return so I sat, crying in the tree even when the sun prepared to go to bed.  Finally, Mum came home.  She wrapped her arms around my trembling body and lifted me down to safety.  The softness of her sweater was a relief after hours of knowing only the cold, hard boards.  In a way, my experience that day can help me understand her childhood in a better way than any of her words could describe.  Cold, scared and alone after the innocence of my whistling excitement wore off, I was completely isolated to only pain and emptiness.  When would love finally reach me?  At last, I was set free by the warm grasp of my mother’s embrace.

            I know my mother raised me in a better way than she had ever been benefited to know.  Her consistent care and love will sustain me for the rest of my days, no matter how others may treat me. I cherish every moment of her soft touch and gentle words.  I’m storing away memories of her strength and independence and how she puts so much trust in others.  Her humility echoes her troublous past but reflects her pure heart, refined by trials.  What she has given me will last forever – hope.