Remembering my mom on Mother’s Day
A wise person once told me if you really want to know a person, you look into his or her eyes.
Eyes never lie, she told me. That wise person was my Mom.
She was right, especially about herself. Her eyes told me her story, always.
She had blue eyes, like mine. Deep eyes that widened and twinkled when she was happy, and eyes that became narrow, red and watery when she was irritated.
Mom’s eyes were mirrors of her emotions, at least to me, her youngest son. Her eyes told many more happy stories than sad.
Her eyes danced when she told stories of her childhood in East St. Louis and of her high school years at the old St. Teresa’s Academy. Whenever I see a St. Teresa’s Academy class ring, I think of those stories, and of her eyes, bright and animated.
Her eyes opened wide when she denied tales of her teenage shopping sprees for clothes and how she spent her paychecks before she received a check.
A frown framed her eyes when she told tales of how hard she worked in her family yard during childhood, picking fruits and vegetables, That was the reason she never had a garden or fruit tree as an adult. “I don’t care if I ever pick another peach as long as I live…,” she said often.
Mom raised three boys. We teased her about old boyfriends, before Dad. She let us have our fun. But we knew when she’d had enough by the stern look in her eyes. Mom’s frown spoke as loudly as her twinkles.
She didn’t blink often, or wink, for attention. Her eyes focused when someone told stories of her dad. Gramps wanted to protect his young daughter. Mom wanted independence. There were stories of how she snuck out of her home late at night and climbed in windows early in the morning. She admitted she liked to have fun but denied sneaking. Of course, her eyes and smile couldn’t lie.
Her eyes would get moist when, years later, someone reminded her that she and Gramps argued a lot because they were so much alike. She didn’t talk much about her sister, Virginia, who died during childhood of a rare heart condition. Hey eyes became moist and serious. Nothing we could do, was all she’d say. That was hardest.
She loved telling stories of her adult cooking classes at Belleville Area College, which were more of a wine-tasting event. Her eyes danced as she told stories of her weight-loss trials, and how she’d go to a TOPPS meeting, lose a few pounds, and stop to get pizza on the way home. Dessert, too, but that usually depended on the amount of her weekly weight loss.
One of my first memories is the day President John Kennedy was assassinated. I was a toddler. My dad was at work and my brothers were in school. Mom and I got in the car and drove to my grandparents, and she sobbed the whole trip. I said nothing because even as a toddler, I knew her eyes told me now wasn’t the time to ask for a milk shake.
I remember so much about my mother
I remember her eyes when I was in grade school and how bright and cheerful they were when I brought home a good report card, and how disappointed they looked when I’d bring home another one of my “He’s not working to his potential” notes from a teacher.
I remember the disappointment in her eyes when I was in high school and did some really dumb high school things. She rarely said a word, figuring I had already learned my lesson the hard way. But I could the disappointment. In her eyes, of course.
I remember the pride in her eyes when we won a big game, or when somebody would tell her that her son was mannerly. Later in life, I remember her eyes when grandchildren arrived. It was a twinkle I had not seen before. Proud. Focused. Nothing else mattered.
It has taken me a generation to fully understand how a parent and child can communicate without sharing a word to one another. I knew my parents’ mood by looking them in the eyes, and they always sensed when something was not right in my world.
I can tell when something’s not quite right with my two adult kids because I can see it in their eyes, instantly. Today is Mother’s Day, and of course, I’m thinking about my late Mom’s eyes again.
They told her story, always.
Blue eyes, like mine.
