When I was young, I drew a picture of my mother. It was her standing in a yard with a house in the background. It wasn't our house, and my mother looked like anyone but herself. Dressed entirely in green, with green hair and a green expression on her green face, she stood in front of a green two-story house surrounded by a green landscape. Green was her favorite color, and I wanted to make a surprise out of the drawing for her.
My mother was a god to me in those days, and in my eyes she could do no wrong. I think she understood this, and in turn she lavished attention on me like I was a princess in my own little world whose wishes were to be carried out no matter the cost. We were close, too, and not a day went by when I did not divulge some sort of secret knowledge to my mom.
My mother was a game show contestant also, answering countless questions with the infinite patience that only an experienced mom can possess. Her prize for a satisfying answer was a flash of comprehension in my tiny, bright eyes and a hesitant "Oh" as I caught on. It seemed to make my mother just as happy to pass on the age-old knowledge of why the sky is blue as it made me to learn of it. My undying love for her at that age seemed to motivate her to new heights of mom-hood, as she constantly fought battles of her own with my father (who she divorced when I was four), and with her own shortcomings.
I also remember my mother as beautiful. She had dark hair-the kind you run your fingers through just to feel how soft it is-and it always smel...
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...; I like to believe that I've accepted my self-induced isolation from her with grace, but I must admit that I do hold the hope of bridging the gap between my mother and I. I also hold the hope of amending myself for all the times I've knowingly and purposefully hurt her. Although she is not a god, as I originally assumed, she is a good woman. She has raised me, sheltered me, and loved me for over seventeen years without asking for more than casual chores in return. I believe that the greatest compliment I could ever give my mother is to grow up to be exactly what she wants me to be. I want to make her happy. My gift to her will be my success in life, so that when she's old and gray, and she's knitting me a hideous sweater in her creaky rocking chair, she can sigh, and mumble to herself, "Wow, it was worth it."
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