Previous Challenge Entry (Level 2 – Intermediate)
Topic: First (as in original) (01/10/05)
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TITLE: Original Meaning | Previous Challenge Entry
By Autumn Waldroup
01/17/05 -
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One of a kind.
That’s you!
Adieu!”
Frowning, I glared into the mirror at the similar reflection behind me, mockingly mouthing the words to mom’s familiar poem. Today, I cringe at the memory, recalling the hurt in the eyes of my mother as she tried to appease the pangs of teenage angst. I can vividly see the two of us standing together, looking into the large oval mirror above my dresser. Mom, with striking black hair, graying slightly around the temples and those blue eyes sparkling, as if she were about to break forth in song or tell a secret she had been holding onto for too long; and me, same long dark hair and eyes that frequently engaged in an upwards roll at the first sign of perceived parental patronization. Like now.
“I know, Mom! I am one of a kind, Thank-God!”
Then the pain of the memory begins because it is at that moment as my eyes drift downward from their upward roll, that upon their descent I meet my mother’s gaze in the mirror’s reflection and see the pained expression on her face. I knew I had hurt her feelings. I met her eyes for only a moment but I hold it now as if it were eternity. I don’t know exactly what she was thinking, but I would venture to guess that she was seeing me as I see my own daughter, a reflection of her: Same oval-shaped face, piercing blue eyes, dark wiry hair, standing all of five feet, two inches tall. Shapely calves, but not much development further north. A unique composite of LaBonte genes tempered (I do mean tempered) with the German fire of the Reichmans.
That was the last time I looked into the eyes of my mother. She was killed by a drunk driver that day. Thus began the first day of my life without my mother. In an instant, my best friend, my confidant, my number one cheerleader, my spiritual rock was removed from my life without warning. I didn’t know what to do. It was like learning to walk again, except in a dark room where someone keeps rearranging the furniture. Suddenly, life became surreal as routine activities and objects took on new meaning. The first meal with the empty chair, the first birthday without mom’s routine fuss and her two-layer chocolate cake with pink icing. The first time I smell her perfume. Mediocre moments magnify her absence and rites of passage go strangely uncelebrated. College. Marriage. Birth of a child. Bittersweet.
Nuances of her behavior show up when I least expect it and find emotion in the strangest circumstances. Like last week when I reached for a can of peaches at the grocery store and noticed for the first time my mom’s hands, only they were my own. I wasn’t particularly thinking of her, it was just the first time I really looked at my hands and thought of mom. Occasional, random thoughts topple out of my brain and make me think of her, giving passersby pause to ponder as I begin to sniffle in the checkout line with a can of peaches, for example.
Then there is Marlena. Friends since second grade when she moved into the rambling old farmhouse down the street. We shared clothes, hated geometry and loved Wednesday night Bible study when handsome Eric Waldroup would attend. There was only one problem. Marlena’s father was an alcoholic. He played poker at the lodge on Tuesday nights. My mom was killed on Wednesday morning. I remember the first and last time I saw Marlena. Both times she was crying, once when she moved into my life and once when she moved out. Although we never spoke again after both Marlena’s family and mine moved away, we found healing through a series of heartfelt letters.
Marlena’s last letter was the most meaningful.
“Original.
One of a kind.
That’s you.
...Until God.”
Odd. Mom’s poem ended with “adieu.” Had she forgotten? While looking through old papers a couple of years ago, I found the answer in an old French poem similar to my mother’s verse. The last word was “adieu,” and scribbled in my mom’s handwriting, next to the word was “until God.” I scoured through the French dictionary. It’s true. The word “adieu” actually means “until God.” It implies a promise of reunion, by God, should this be a last meeting.
I love you, Mom.
You were original,
One of a kind.
Adieu.
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I can relate to all the discriptions and feelings - with my mom now with the Lord. You write very well, and it held my interest. I think I will post a poem I wrote when my dad passed away in 1982. It's on nostalgia,:)