Let's Try Again

I have often tried to write about my mother. She is remarkable in the ways every mother should be, dull in the ways every woman wishes she weren’t. And it’s her story I want to tell, which is as unique as the smell of her bread and the sound of her laugh. But she’s sensitive. When I ring her up and ask for permission (again) to write about this or that, the sharp, short inhale that comes before the I guess reminds me of this. Also, I’m not the only writer in the family. And the other one doesn’t wait or ask for permission before publishing part of her life. So I’ve tried to be gentle. Yet everything I’ve tried has remained just that, an attempt, an effort incomplete.
Now, I find myself older than she was when first she met, then married, my father—when she ventured into womanhood with her faith and her companion. And I’m afraid, that as I age beyond her echo, she—along with her uniquely ordinary journey—will be left un-celebrated. So she’s given me permission, once again, to try to tell part of her story.