Mother

Mother.

Short, thick hair that I’d try and collect into a ponytail.

Shoulders back when she walked, leading confidently; the sounds of her footsteps uneven.

The smell of Giorgio Armani lingering in the air, and hanging from my clothes after she’d wrapped me in a bear-like hug.

This is how I remember her.

Sitting down every Tuesday night to watch All Saints, perving on the male lead.

Beginning and ending the day with a cup of tea: white, no sugar.

Enjoying a gin and tonic or a fizzling glass of Devil’s Corner; drinking the rest of us under the table. She holds her liquor, my mother…

I remember.

Indigo-coloured dressing gown worn every morning at breakfast.

Legs tucked under her on the couch, nose in a Danielle Steele novel.

The husky boom of her laugh when she’d find something hilarious, beads of tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

These are the ways I’ll always remember her.

The small affirming noise she used to make (“hmmm”) to laugh at your story when you knew that she hadn’t really been listening.

The way she would hold your gaze when she was cross at you, trying- but failing- to repress a smile. (Meanwhile, we’d be pulling faces, waiting for her to inevitably crack.)

Blue-grey eyes focused upon you, always watching and taking you in. She would share her thoughts about you later, when she had you alone:

“You have a very infectious laugh.”

“You’re a bit of a loner, aren’t you?”

“You work too hard. I hope you don’t feel you have to prove yourself?”

Some might call her opinionated– but since when has it ever been okay for a woman to be assertive?

I call her strong and self-assured, honest and direct. She wears her heart on her sleeve and speaks her mind, and this is why I value her: my mother.

There was the time she drove down a footpath, unable to see where the road was.

There was the day we were playing darts and she accidentally came out of the closet when she hit a bullseye. She was quick to correct herself.

“I’m a legend!” she cried, hoping we hadn’t heard the other ‘l’ word.

(We had.)

Then there was the day she spotted a spider on the windscreen as she parked the car, and (panicking) forced my sister out of the passenger side door so she could make a quick escape, bottom first.

Silly, quick-witted and uniquely weird. This is how I remember her.

My mother: the epitome of loyal. Look it up in the dictionary and you’ll see:

Loyalty: noun T. G. Moon, who extends faithful and unwavering support to her family.

Working night shifts at the hospital and raising three daughters during the day.

Leading the household like a 50’s housewife, whilst balancing full-time work and studies for a new university degree.

Attending every sports game, piano recital and parent-teacher interview. Giving relentlessly to a husband, three children and numerous patients. Meanwhile: expecting nothing in return.

She paved the way for strength and independence in a man’s world, demonstrating to three daughters the power of a woman. Her teachings are in my bones: forever to be remembered.

Mother.

All-Bran and canned peaches every morning for years.

A closet that is sixty percent active-wear, and forty percent shoes.

The bright orange of her car and the rainbow polka dots on her suitcase, for she loves things that are “different” and was never afraid to stand out.

How could I not remember…

The thought and research she put into gifts:

The sterling-silver infinity bracelet given to me when I was sad, to remind me of my eternity and the eternity of her love.

A poem personally written and laminated, speaking of the journey of life with it’s beauty and challenges. She pinned this on my wall around the time of my first overdose…

I wasn’t an easy daughter for my mother, but she rose to the challenge.

I remember:

Endless appointments with new therapists and healers in her determination to source me a cure.

The nights she would sit beside me on the bed and listen as I shared my fears around not fitting in at school.

The Saturday that she drove half an hour out to town to buy me a large smiley-face pillow, following a teary episode whereby I’d first proclaimed my self-hatred as an 11-year old.

I remember the way she loves me unconditionally, my mother.

There was her response when I anxiously told her that I was dating another woman:

“Your father and I don’t care, so long as you’re happy.”

Supporting me through drama school, and asking to watch every self-tape audition I’d made because she is my number one fan. (Never has she once questioned my choice of career.)

Listening and asking questions whilst I tell her about Saturn Return and what I’ve learnt through doing Past-Life Regression Therapy.

Does she agree with me? Maybe not– but she’d never want me to feel estranged, because she is a mother, and mothers such as her encompass the feminine at it’s most pure. (Nurture, warmth, devotion, generosity of spirit, compassion and modesty.)

Mother.

She leaves a mark; a legacy.

I am proud to be her daughter, and this will always be remembered.