“Your daughter’s here, did you know that?”
“No, where?!”
“She’s probably hiding from you.”
I hear my mother’s laughter from behind me and turn so see her laughing with John our bartender/baristar/waiter/coveted sweetie behind the counter.
My mother, in all her grey haired glory has read my mind once again. All morning I was hoping that if I stayed in the café long enough she’d show up and we could chat. (The joys of a small town: there’re only a few descent places to find yourself on a late Thursday morning.) She did it again—listened intently to the voices in her head (from me of course) telling her to go to the café to meet her daughter, buy a salad, and let me eat half. Perfect timing.
After eating all her red onions and confessing that I miss being a kid, she said to me, “We’re role models you and I, examples of what’s possible (on our good days) in a mother-daughter relationship. This is something that John has probably never experienced but is witnessing through us.”
We hold hands and lean towards one another across the table as she says this. I like the feeling of knowing my mother as a friend, as a wise elder, a warm embrace, soft hands that are always ready for mine.
I look at her bright eyes and know that she is my mirror. I see myself reflected back.
This is for you mom; you are my inspiration and my heart connection to love.
