Musings About My Mother

I was raised by my mom Elizabeth, until I was eight years old.
In that (sometimes much too adventurous) time she taught me a lot.
Mostly she taught me, by example of what I didn’t want to be.
That teaching has guided me my entire life.
It wasn’t until recently that I began to see that she is part of me
and that it isn’t a bad thing, wonder of wonders.
I had always thought that if I was anything even slightly like her,
I would have failed which isn’t the case at all.
If anything I am all of her goodness.
Her smile, her nose, her quick laughter, her hair, her hands, her eyes,
her shyness.
But at the same time, I am me, in part because of her.
It has taken me this long to make peace with her inside of me.
And somehow I think I can love her now for her goodness that she
either knowingly or not, gave to me.
I think in a way, I am what she could have been had she been brave.
I think she would be very proud to see how brave and strong I have
become.
I hope that she would gain some satisfaction in knowing
that she helped, even if in part, make me this way.