Mom

My mom is beautiful like the wild violets she loves so much. Their splendor lies in their vibrant color and their fragility, but their delicate shape belies their resilience. I've seen those violets dot the sides of heavily-trafficked interstates and backyards with more rocks than dirt. They can grow anywhere and need no maintenance, but they catch the eye of everyone who passes by.

My mom is graceful like the birds she watches from our back windows. She knows their songs and their names, their distinguishing markings, but she doesn't know how much she shares with them. Her songs have been the lovely backdrop of our childhoods. Her quiet kitchen melodies have drifted up the stairs and lulled us to sleep with their familiarity. She is a delight to all with the privilege of being in her presence.

My mom is deliberate like the Shakespearian sonnets she recites to herself. We see her thoughtfulness in everything from the flowers she arranges on our kitchen island and the colors and flavors of the food she prepares to the Valentine's packages she sends us and the way she artfully wraps her gifts. Nothing that bears her name is done with half her heart.

My mom is calm like the scent of the lavender she grows beside our house. Little can sway her easy temperament, and she takes pleasure in small, everyday delights. She doesn't require riches or lavish attention or constant entertainment to be happy; she is captivated by the sunsets on our back porch. Gossip doesn't excite her, nor does flattery.

My mom is as much a part of us as our bones, our breath, our blood. We see her when we look in the mirror, we hear her in each others' voices. People often lament that the older women are, the more like their mothers they become. Four the four of us, there could be no better fortune.