Through a crack in the door…

 I catch a glimpses of her. she is dressed up in leopard and pearl and I can sell the roses she loves in the air. Her hair is piled atop her head , her pearl earring glimmer amongst the shades of her her red hair. My mother is dressed to be beautiful, to impress but the layers of makeup cannot hide the angry flame within. She is always angry, but tonight she channels this into her appearance. My mother is hard to handle, but even in glimpses like this she is almost blinding but I a stil not sure if in a good way. She was a whirlwind captured in glass. A true hurricane vase. The glass could break at the slightest provocation, either from without or within, it was hard to tell what would set her off or what would put her back behind the glass. I caught glimpses of her , passing back and forth in front of the door, gathering her things for the night out. My mother was always a study in something or other, it depended on the day or her tempestuous mood. This is noot a solid memory, a specific time but a gelitine made of many images, molded into a shape and left to set with time. Pretty to look at but so delicate to touch and define. Roses are the scent she wore, prickly things that his treasures in their layers. Its cliche to say mother was like a rose, but it is apt to say that if you grabbled or handled he wrong she could hurt you, badly. She was damaged, even as a young child looking in, I knew that. I didn’t understand then but I still tried to help her. I knew, with a child’s knowing, I couldn’t fix what was broken but I tried to make the edges less sharp. I can remember the sound of her laugh, deep and rich but with a hint of bittersweet. she had a sharp wit that many found painful. I remember the smell of chocolate in the the oven, on birthdays and how she didn’t ‘cheat’ with german chocolate cake. It’s hard to think of food without her coming in. The sound of dishes, pots and pans. Her fudge and divinity on Christmas. Salt dough ornaments int eh shape of dolls and starrs. I remember listening to Enya in the car, her favorite artist, I listen and remember.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s