I search for you and me in the memories you left behind

W

here did you go, daughters and sons, when I handed over the veil? Ah, there you are, in the writings on the wall you left behind. Because leaving home to play house with a new spouse is a task, not only for you. It’s for me, too. Maybe more for me. As each vacant chair becomes a space to hold books, I search among their pages for stories of the mother I was. I also search for the one I have become so I can know the story of who you are as an adult.

When I flick open my blue-bound cookbook, what do I see? A letter written by you at age 14, to your future adult self. You write, “Dearest Me. This letter is for you when you grow up. I hope we’ll be good friends then. PS Did you make the soup in the end?”

As a young mother I wondered when you, my expert procrastinator, would get things done. I pushed and prodded until you said no, and I learned to let go. Now you’re my chef on call when a new daughter-in-law comes. The scent of five-course dinners wafts from your kitchen. Why hadn’t I waited? Given you space?

When I seek a read for the grandkids, what do I see? Your paper book, Shooey the Shoe Looks for a Match. You had quite a sense of humor, and I needed you to be more mature, needed you to grow up, so you’d be accepted by all. Until I saw friends enjoy your giggles when you were you, not when you were me. So I asked you to share your jokes, laughed at your antics. Now you’re a mother yourself, and you liven me with your laughs as you scoop mud cakes from the drain. Why hadn’t I connected then to who you are as you are, like I do today?

When I need another notebook for lists, what do I see? Your boyish scrawl about the throw-the-ball-across-the-street game. You never dared tell. I was so focused on you not scaring the wits out of me, I left you little freedom to explore your boys-will-be-boys self. Until I listened more and spoke less. Guided you instead of using reprimands. Now you strap your little ones in, except for that 33-second ride down the driveway I pretend not to see. Are these the consequences of not balancing the flexibility/rigidity conundrum during your youth?

When my grandson shows me how he can read the Chumash, what do I see? A looseleaf with stick figures. Scrolls and a hill of lilies and a rose. You were drawing in color the lamdan you were going to be, while I urged you to enjoy childhood that comes but once. Until I saw your energy when you pored over the page. Your misery when I stopped you. I fashioned a rope out of straw to jump ship and asked every day, “What did you enjoy learning today?” Now you follow your dreams to where you want to go. And I’m proud to stand beside you in your journey; but why didn’t I join you when you needed it most?

There, I found you, in the writings on the wall of the childhood home you left behind. But then you return with clones and clones of you. And I see parts of myself in the way you live, laugh, and learn with your own brood. Sometimes when your tone and tune is so similar to mine, I revel in its musical notes. Most of the time I cry, wishing I would have allowed you to be you.

I read more and more from the writing you left on the wall. I turn page after page until I’ve read past the middle of the book. I start to discern themes and plot and character formation. At each chapter, the title changes to reflect new perspectives. Slowly, I see, you have your own story to tell, past the first few chapters I wrote.

I cry and laugh with the mother I was, who lived the best way she knew how as she grew along with her brood. And as I let go, I connect to the adult you are as you are without me center on the page.

See me in the footnotes.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 941)