It wasn't until after I left the grocery store that I discovered Daisy's sparkly pink "clippy" perched haphazardly above my hairline. I had thought that I had noticed an unusual personal glance from my cashier. Unlike the embarrassment that accompanies the public discovery of a bit of spinach in my teeth or a remnant sticker labeling the size of my jeans, the feeling I had at that moment was pure glee, like I was part of an inside joke.
It was like when my mom would french braid my hair and when she would bravely let me experiment with hers; it was like my aunts painting my face on my 7th birthday, and me drawing on my friend's Converse in 7th grade. It reminded me of seeing my piano student's tiny red fingernails and imagining her mother, smiling, holding, painting.
When I let my daughter play with my hair today, she snapped on a memento. Her clippy, in a tiny, sparkly way, somehow proved to me and to whomever looked that we shared a moment, that I share myself with her, and that we are all more than individuals.
Here's to lipstick marks on the cheek and other tangible reminders of impact this mothers' day.
Here I am, one of your biggest fans - checking in on a Monday a.m. when I should be doing my chores ;-) This is so sweet; you are a great writer Holly. I hope you keep blogging once you are on the OTHER side of the Ocean.
ReplyDelete