Mother

Standing by the window with the bright sun shining into the room, mother was in silhouette, the wisps of hair straying around her head mingled, in my vision, with the straying mists of the curtains. She held them apart with her right hand and her long delicate fingers played with the folds of gossamer. Her left had touched the pendant that lay upon her chest, its lace framework of white contrasting with the dark cotton bodice of her dress. The gold band on her finger caught the light as she felt the sculpted cameo, and knobs of gold bounced off the ceiling and far wall with every movement of her fingers. She did this unconsciously, touching the cameo. She often did it. The design of its bas relief was of a girl standing on a shore, her hair blowing behind her and becoming entwined with the beams of a silver moon.

Mother was gazing out the window but her thoughts were not on the summer scene outside. Her eyes reflected the green lawn and large trees and the yellow swaying field beyond. But these reflections were not on her mind. She was thinking of me…and that the eggs gathered that morning were still in her basket in the hall, covered with the red checkered cloth…that the front fence really needed another whitewash…that she must make sure Amelia had the silver polished for the dinner guests. These things flitted in and out of her mind as the gold knob moved back and forth from ceiling to floor, ceiling to floor, in a gliding motion synchronized to the motion of her fingers slowly swinging the pendant on its gold chain. And the breeze moved the curtains and in the same rhythm the wisps of hair blew around her neck. I knew one strand would blow across her cheek soon and that she would take her hand from the curtains and turn back to me where I lay on my bed on top of the pink chintz cover that matched the valance above the gauze curtains she held. She was thinking of me and wondering what she could do to help; what she could say to ease my pain and confusion. I couldn’t hold the tears back and they fell down my face onto the pink coverlet; they made the knob of gold blur into a soft yellow and the woman in silhouette become even softer, iridescent, as the gauze curtains.

Outside the window insects were buzzing. In the distance a train groaned out its long lonely whistle. It was the sound I listened to at night and woke up to in the mornings. The sound of peace, a part of my world, like the woman standing in front of the window. They all belonged together. Outside the oak leaves rattled and the curtains again billowed, as a wisp of hair slipped onto her cheek and into her gray eyes. I heard her sigh. The fingers let go of the curtains and went to her face to catch the escaped strand. The fragile and capable fingers fastened it again into place. In the next movement she turned and came toward me. The long folds of her dress flowed against her legs and the rustle of petticoats underneath replaced the echoes of the whistling train. She bent down and placed a cool hand on my forehead. She was smiling and her hair looked like spun sugar around her face. “Now you’re as much of a woman as I am.” She lifted the pendant in her left hand and with the right pulled the chain over her head. Then she put it around my neck and laid the lace frame carefully on the yellow muslin of my blouse. She cocked her head to one side as an artist critically gazing before her easel. Then her eyes looked into mine. “There, I think it’s time you had this.” She smiled at me for a long moment and I smiled back as I touched the gold chain, the ivory, and the lace. And my shattered world was mended.