My mother knew what she’d name me long before I was born. Growing up she always told me how much of a gift I was. She had dreamed of a baby girl, dreamed of her precious daughter, with every babydoll she was gifted. I don’t remember dreaming of occupations, or future careers. I just wanted to be the very best daughter.
Pale green walls are remnants from my nursery. Through a half opened window, a sweet spring breeze whispers in. It carries my weighted mind home to my very oldest memories, of being so young the teddy bears sitting beside me are nearly my same size. And Mom sits there too, in her sweatpants, reading a picture book to me under the gentle sunlight.
I couldn’t stay so young forever. I didn’t feel older, but my body began to age. Skin stretched over my growing bones, scarring on my thighs and belly. I was scared of the person in the mirror. My unsettlement reflected in her eyes. I was scared of the woman's body imitating my movements. Mom wasn’t scared. She bought me chocolate for my cramping stomach and painkillers for my aching legs. She’d wake up early to braid my hair, and everynight kiss my forehead and call me her beautiful girl.
When Mom got sick, we didn’t think it’d be any real problem. She was in bed for a few days, but told me she just needed rest. Her face looked puffy and strange, and she began walking slowly, like she couldn’t carry her own weight. The next afternoon, she was taken to the hospital. Still, I was told she just needed more rest, that everything was going to be okay.
She died in the morning. She was there and then she wasn’t. Now she never will be again. Death's presence still stains the heavy air, in a way I’ve never known. The absence of her voice is waiting at the door. Her words, how she’d say I’d never know the endless extent of her love for me. I would always silently disagree. She told me she’d give me the world if she could. I would’ve given her the universe, but assumed it was already hers.
When I was my mother’s daughter, everything felt so easy. Everyday, I stood beside her and felt beautiful. I’ve started to notice that anything can be beautiful under the right light. The sunflower faces towards the sun and basks in its goodness. What is a sunflower without the sun? A sunflower can’t exist without the sun. What is a daughter without a mother? Am I horrible to think as though she’s entirely gone from me? Grandma says the only separation is in the way humans see things. I don’t disagree, but still, a sunflower couldn’t survive without the touch of the sunlight, even if the sun was only hidden behind a cloud.
My mind wanders now, more than it ever has. Some nights I find myself at the gate of an impossibly green grass lane. I walk down it and see memories unfold beside me. One of Mom tucking me in, the next of her waking me. But there’s a small space between the two moments I never paid attention to before. A moment of separation. I’m young, and alone in my childhood bed. The pillow sheet is dampened by tears, but my face is still. I never allowed it to crack, to break or crumple. I didn’t allow myself to look, or be, anything less than precious. A horrible, betraying feeling of relief finds its way into my chest like freedom. I can cry ugly as I want now, Mom will never see. To her, I will be frozen in time, as her precious little girl. But that feeling quickly dies out, leaving ashes of pain, and a yearning in my chest. I know her hope for me didn’t end at my youth. Even if I work to become the most mature, beautiful woman I could be, she will never see. She will never see me graduate, or marry, or grow old.
My mother named me Precious. In the mirror I sometimes see the faint image of her eyes through my own. I’m actively spoiled by everything she’s given me. My body, my home, my mind, my perspective. I am still alive. I will continue to grow, change, and learn. I’ll do my best. It’s cold, without the sun, but I can still walk beside her ghost, and her love. I can still be her daughter, and learn to be human.
Pale green walls are remnants from my nursery. Through a half opened window, a sweet spring breeze whispers in. It carries my weighted mind home to my very oldest memories, of being so young the teddy bears sitting beside me are nearly my same size. And Mom sits there too, in her sweatpants, reading a picture book to me under the gentle sunlight.
I couldn’t stay so young forever. I didn’t feel older, but my body began to age. Skin stretched over my growing bones, scarring on my thighs and belly. I was scared of the person in the mirror. My unsettlement reflected in her eyes. I was scared of the woman's body imitating my movements. Mom wasn’t scared. She bought me chocolate for my cramping stomach and painkillers for my aching legs. She’d wake up early to braid my hair, and everynight kiss my forehead and call me her beautiful girl.
When Mom got sick, we didn’t think it’d be any real problem. She was in bed for a few days, but told me she just needed rest. Her face looked puffy and strange, and she began walking slowly, like she couldn’t carry her own weight. The next afternoon, she was taken to the hospital. Still, I was told she just needed more rest, that everything was going to be okay.
She died in the morning. She was there and then she wasn’t. Now she never will be again. Death's presence still stains the heavy air, in a way I’ve never known. The absence of her voice is waiting at the door. Her words, how she’d say I’d never know the endless extent of her love for me. I would always silently disagree. She told me she’d give me the world if she could. I would’ve given her the universe, but assumed it was already hers.
When I was my mother’s daughter, everything felt so easy. Everyday, I stood beside her and felt beautiful. I’ve started to notice that anything can be beautiful under the right light. The sunflower faces towards the sun and basks in its goodness. What is a sunflower without the sun? A sunflower can’t exist without the sun. What is a daughter without a mother? Am I horrible to think as though she’s entirely gone from me? Grandma says the only separation is in the way humans see things. I don’t disagree, but still, a sunflower couldn’t survive without the touch of the sunlight, even if the sun was only hidden behind a cloud.
My mind wanders now, more than it ever has. Some nights I find myself at the gate of an impossibly green grass lane. I walk down it and see memories unfold beside me. One of Mom tucking me in, the next of her waking me. But there’s a small space between the two moments I never paid attention to before. A moment of separation. I’m young, and alone in my childhood bed. The pillow sheet is dampened by tears, but my face is still. I never allowed it to crack, to break or crumple. I didn’t allow myself to look, or be, anything less than precious. A horrible, betraying feeling of relief finds its way into my chest like freedom. I can cry ugly as I want now, Mom will never see. To her, I will be frozen in time, as her precious little girl. But that feeling quickly dies out, leaving ashes of pain, and a yearning in my chest. I know her hope for me didn’t end at my youth. Even if I work to become the most mature, beautiful woman I could be, she will never see. She will never see me graduate, or marry, or grow old.
My mother named me Precious. In the mirror I sometimes see the faint image of her eyes through my own. I’m actively spoiled by everything she’s given me. My body, my home, my mind, my perspective. I am still alive. I will continue to grow, change, and learn. I’ll do my best. It’s cold, without the sun, but I can still walk beside her ghost, and her love. I can still be her daughter, and learn to be human.