And as I look at this, all the words and memories, my life on these pages, as I spread these pieces out and fit them together, what picture do I see that I couldn’t find before? My mother and me? How we fit together? I see her in my mind, when she was young with her straight black hair and long legs. When she was old, her bespeckled hands, now my hands. I don’t know what the current theories on child-rearing or proper parenting might be; they always seem to be changing. What I do know is this: How you care for your child from the time they are born until they’re eighteen is important, but who you are as a person and parent for as long as you live also counts, and counts one hell of a lot. My mother might have blinked when I was a child—she made huge mistakes, without a doubt—but I cannot fool myself into thinking that I have been a perfect parent either… though my gaffes have been different. But I hope that I have learned from her, because on this writing road that I choose to hoe, what becomes most clear to me is that my mother never backed away. She never deflected or ducked or left my sight. I didn’t need her to be perfect. I needed to know her, warts and all, so that then, perhaps, I could know myself. She struggled to give me that, unflinchingly. She was my devoted, perfectly imperfect mother. I loved her profoundly and I will miss her every day of my life. And I know, without a doubt, that when I close my eyes for good, she will come to get me.
Till then, Baa.