A Mother's Touch
By Mary Woodsen
Email: marywoodsen at nasw dot org
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May 29, 2008
Back in her room, she shook off her blouse and stepped out of her hot, sweaty jeans. Tall basswood trees cradled this side of the house, making the breeze that slipped through the window balmy and soft. What a relief to be home. She sat down on the edge of the bed. Just to stretch out and stare at the sky—or what she could see of the sky, with the green boughs bending so close ....
When she woke up it was evening. Birds flitted through the trees, chirping softly, the afterthought of a summer day. She looked out the window, layer on layer of gold on green. She felt much better now.
She leafed through the dresses hanging on hooks and slipped into one that was worn but still bright. Closing the door behind her, she went downstairs. The kitchen was flooded with light. Through wide windows clouds drifted high on a south wind. Somewhere toward the back of the property she heard the tractor revving. He must be about done for the day, and she saw that he'd already set out a few things--potatoes, cheddar, a sweet pepper--for a simple meal. He'd be pleased if she got things started.
She opened the cabinet door and was surprised to see that jar of jam right there in front. She had to reach around it for the olive oil. She thought she'd forgotten it, in the back seat of the car. Well, not forgotten, exactly. So of course he'd brought it in; could she blame him? But she slammed the cabinet door anyway. "Hey now," she told herself. Slamming the door on a simple jar of jam, a gift ...
She grabbed a potato and began whacking at it. Even now, with all these years gone by, still to feel this way! And the woman almost peaceful now, almost--motherly. That small frame house quiet and calm with the last of the children gone; a pot of scarlet pansies blooming by the door. Those hard handsthey'd found gentler tasks these days. Making jam! Having the time to make strawberry jam. Wanting to make it, and wanting to give ....
What do you do with all these crazy feelings? You feel like you love your mom in ways; it breaks your heart to remember all that pain. You can see now what drove her, the despair. You even admire her as someone who finally learned--a little late; isn't it all the more moving?--to suspend the grief, the bitterness, the rage. You know, at last, that she loves you, her daughter. But it doesn't stop the ... she shivered, remembering something, something too dark to see. The knife skittered across the board. No, you don't want her to touch you. And you never will.
The potatoes were sizzling in the skillet; now she needed some salt, oregano, garlic powder. She opened the cabinet door again. The jam, of course, was in the way, and her arm prickled. She could just see--no, feel--her mother clutching that jar, clutching her, trying to say goodbye ....
Loathing, a quick chill. Even at this distance, to feel a mother's touch.
About the author:
I began writing in my mid-40s. I started with fiction, then switched to narrative nonfiction and feature stories about 10 years ago. There's nothing I'd rather do than write. I found this last week as I went through some old files and thought, what the heck. So here it is.
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