I picked up a little head cold this week and am writing next to an almost empty box of tissues, jaw set and eyes lingering shut every few blinks. A pale sun streams through the windows, and I am curled in its wake, resting my head in one hand and trying to focus.
To anyone else forced into slowness this week by illness or other uncontrollable circumstances, I am with you. May you find moments of connection and gratitude within it.
This week, two stories on love, family, and seeing through generations.
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On Becoming My Mother
In many ways, my mother and I differ. She would only camp if it was the actual apocalypse. She’s skeptical of vegan butter (I understand she’s in good company with that one). Her nails are usually nicely painted (meanwhile I just had my first pedicure in probably 15 years. But that’s a story for another day…) Yet today I realized, as I was stepping into my sneakers to go for a walk and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the living room mirror, that I looked almost exactly like her.
For as long as I can remember, my mother has walked the same two-mile route in her neighborhood. She wears comfortable shorts that hit about mid-thigh, an old t-shirt, and sneakers. Her delicate hair is usually whisked back into a casual ponytail. The other thing my mother has done as long as I can remember, and something that used to gross me out, is that she would leave crumpled-up tissues in the pockets of all her clothes (and sometimes around the house). Having lived in the south for much of her life, she is brown from the sun and her Cajun roots.
When I saw myself in the mirror, I noticed the mom shorts first. Comfortable fit; mid-thigh inseam; pockets, of course. Tan legs, even emerging from winter. My newly-short brown hair tied back in a half-pony. I wore old sneakers and a casual zip-up. In my pocket, I gripped two used tissues.
I had to laugh at myself. I called my mom, and she laughed about it, too.
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On Doing and Remembering
Recently, a family member shared some old photos with me, from over 20 years ago. They are frayed at the edges, worn with time, and slightly crinkled from whatever box they’d been stashed in. They are also peak-early 2000s, as evidenced by the beaded jean jacket I am sporting. I am squinting into the sun and smiling, and even through the wash of time, you can see the rebellious wisps of hair around my crown, emboldened by the coastal Texas humidity. In one photo, the flash of the camera has turned some eyes red, but it’s charming anyway, big cheeks and toothy smiles and youthful innocence. I remember the day these photos were taken, little moments of playing with stuffed animals and running through a splash pad to cool off. I remember the joy of a summer adventure and spending time with family.
Seeing these photos for the first time in ages, the sweet cloy of nostalgia brimming on my lips, I thought, “Oh, we look so young here.” Then a wave of sadness hit, as I considered the future pain that would fracture these smiles. It’s a part of life, but even now, the protector in me wants to shield these family members from the things I know are coming, the life events that will take the ground out from under them. Of course, there will be good times too. They will get back up; they will continue to grow. Maybe my reaction felt potent because I don’t often see photos of these particular people so young.
I texted the photos to another family member, who cooed at the memories.
And that was it. Two moments in time. The doing and the remembering. And the life in the middle that changes how we see things.
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