Am I My Mother's Daughter?: Part 4

Who knew that Mother’s Day was such a great day to run errands?

She stood six persons back in line at the bookstore, musing idly as she waited for her turn with the cashier. She congratulated herself on getting so much done before noon on a Sunday. Now she could reward herself with a few new books and magazines. Surrounded by stands of Mother’s Day gift ideas and other cards and merchandise, she reminded herself that she was past all that now, with her mother gone. No more last-minute rush to find an appropriate gift, no more angst about whether Mom would like it, no more stabs in the heart when Mom made a negative comment.

She wasn’t GLAD her Mom had died last year. But it did make some things a little easier. And other things a LOT less painful.

The line was moving pretty slow. Because of all the extra time it takes now that they have a new rewards program, she thought, irritated. Maybe she should enroll. She usually ignored rewards programs, but this one was pretty good. She should probably sign up.

Finally, only one person in front of her. And of course, he was in the rewards program.

“Phone number? asked the cashier. “773… (of course) 357…”

Her ears pricked up. Wasn’t that the phone exchange for her old home town in Indiana?

“…5470.”

And all of a sudden, the bookstore was gone, the line was gone, and everything blurred. And the cashier said, “You called. FINALLY.”

Mom.

Yes, honey. Getting rid of me wasn’t as easy as you thought.

OK, that last part didn’t happen. But everything else did. The above is from a short piece I wrote for a Writer’s Club meeting in 2023 entitled “A Call from Mom.” It continues through an imaginary conversation I had with my mother while she temporarily took over the body of the cashier at the bookstore. I was experimenting with something the group leader had suggested about the surreal becoming real.

But everything before Mom’s appearance actually happened. I was at Barnes and Noble that morning on Mother’s Day, feeling very light and happy, and not one bit guilty. And the man in front of me in line recited Mom’s old phone number.

I swear I’m not making this up. Couldn’t. I don’t believe in the supernatural, or with encounters with the afterlife. Most of the time. Yet everyone I tell this story to insists it really was Mom reaching out to me from beyond. All I knew for sure was that if she had indeed found a way to reach past the barrier, I hoped she would forget it as soon as possible. Praise the Lord she’d never learned to use the Internet.

This story is typical of where I was with my Mom in the first few years after her death in 2017. Easy to remember the year, because she achieved her goal of living to 100. She died in August, so she actually made it to 100 ½. That half would have been important to her. I was at peace, mostly, and past all the guilt, mostly. But for sure I wasn’t wearing any of her jewelry.

I had experimented, of course. I took most of the pieces that bugged me the most and created an art piece called “Heavy Metal” (of course) that incorporated her jewelry, some of my jewelry, and the first poem from the book in a frame with a magic wand (a bookstore giveaway pen) and a dragon ornament from Thailand. If I ever change my mind about wearing any of it, I would have to destroy a piece of art, and that’s NOT happening. I was probably subconsciously making sure I would never wear those pieces.

I tried several times to have pieces appraised. Way more trouble than it would have been worth. Mom being Mom, of course, she’d had a lot of the best pieces appraised, and I had those documents. But there was LOTS more. Especially pearls, which she loved and I don’t care for at all. No one wants to appraise pearls. I gave up.

But I did have plans for her blue tanzanite ring. I had the appraisal, and it was a doozy. Gemstone mining in Africa is crazy, and prices have skyrocketed. I found a nearby jeweler who did beautiful custom work, and she and I designed a gold dragon claw pendant charm, set with some diamond chips and the blue tanzanite gem, based on the cover illustration from my book. It’s beautiful, and I wore it a lot at first, but as my needs and tastes have changed over the years, it’s usually languishing with other charms in the necklace section of my closet. Have to get it adapted soon, so I can wear it with more of my necklaces. See? See how the DNA is starting to sneak out?

For the most part, I decided that having new pieces made from old gems wasn’t worth the cost and bother, so most of it is still sitting in a white leatherette box in my closet, labeled “Mom’s jewelry.” Except for the opal. And the star sapphire. Oops. There’s that DNA again.

And so it went, until one day I popped it all in a bag and took it to the aforementioned jewelry designer, my friend Sherri at The Goldsmith. I poured most of it out on the table in front of us and said “What the hell should I do with it all?” Sherri picked up one ring, and said, “Well, you should be wearing this.”

It was my father’s engagement ring. My FATHER’S. Not the one from my stepfather, the one Mom claimed to have tossed into the wastebasket at the nursing facility. I said, “It’s too small.”

Sherri said, “There’s a ring guard in it. If I pop it out it will just fit.” And it did.

I never wore a ring on my right hand. I cherish my engagement ring from Ernie, and I never wanted any other rings to compete with it. We’d had it redesigned for some anniversary or other, but I kept the original stone. Ernie said, “You should replace it with something more expensive.” I said No. He bought that ruby in the ring right after college, with money he shouldn’t even have spent. I told him not to

buy a ring. He said, “I’m not sending you home to tell your Mom you’re engaged, with no ring on your finger.” And he didn’t.

I looked at my father’s engagement ring on my right hand, and I asked myself why I hadn’t worn it before. And why I would ever wear anything else.

Something shifted in me at that moment. I think I started to cry. I looked at Sherri and said, “Oh my God, I’m going to have to rewrite my book.”

Because there was one poem still waiting to come out. It was a long one, and I called it “Remains.” It takes place years after the original poems, and on the surface, it’s about the discovery of a ring from the Dragon’s Hoard that no one ever knew existed. What it’s really about is forgiveness. I finally found a way to forgive my mother.

She loved, and she knew love. She loved my father. She wouldn’t have been able to help herself. I’ve read all the letters he wrote to her when he was long-distance courting her, and she couldn’t have resisted. I couldn’t have resisted. I’ve often said no woman could have. He was a man of music, and a man of words, and he wrote straight from his heart.

I like to think I do the same.

I’d learned sometime before Mom’s death that the road to forgiving my mother began with remembering my father. Remembering who he was (as best as I’ve been able to) and remembering how much he loved my mother. There was someone there worthy of his love. Whatever happened later to twist her into a person I struggled to love came later. It wasn’t who she really was. Just as I am not the prickly, sarcastic, unlovable person I can be at times.

Heavy Metal has been republished, as an e-book (but gee, the hard copy makes such a lovely coffee table book) with three new poems (yes, I did write one new one after that bookstore incident!) It remains some of the most beautiful writing I’ve ever done, and I’m proud of it.

Not sure exactly how I feel about some of that new jewelry in my closet. The sterling necklaces and bracelets, and the few pieces of actual gold. Smaug the Dragon would approve. And most days I’m quite happy with it all, although I’m not sure why jewelry always has to be so hard to put on. Personally, I think it’s all about male control of women through expensive gifting…but that’s a post for later.

Am I my mother’s daughter after all? Guess so. And I’m OK with it.