5/13/2022
When I look at my mom, I see the same blonde eyebrows and soft smiled look I notice every time I glance into a mirror in passing. I am my mother's child. I know this even apart from the fact that every picture of her at 18 could be mistaken for myself, and even without the comments from strangers in public every time we leave the house together. I am my mother's child- and I recognize this truth every time I hear her at 2am crying in the room below mine, and every time I hear her whisper to a shoulder about how she can't hold this sadness in anymore. It's echoed to me every time the makeup around her eyes starts to smear because of the squinty eyed laugh we share, and every time her voice changes when she picks up the phone- so that she doesn't risk sounding unkind. I realize it every night, when she falls asleep at 9:30, as well as on the rarer occasions when I watch her watery eyes grapple to stay open as she fights dozing off in a room filled with people. I see it in the way she laughs and in the way she loves. She gave this heart to me and it's my weakest link, yet my greatest possession. I hope that people see in me, what I see it in her. The way I see her live, unable to contain the love inside her. Giving it out to people in a way that is so uncommon- treating it exactly how it is- inexhaustible. She doesn't keep it held in or guard it in the way that so many do- she can't. Her heart is overflowing- so much so that it hurts sometimes. Because how can you love so hard and not expect it to leave a mark? But all it does is prove further the love she has- because it would be only if she loved less that it wouldn't hurt like this. And who would she be without the deep unwavering love that makes her who she is? It's her heart that makes everybody in the world love her just as she does them. It's the detail she puts into all she does- the handmade Halloween costumes she spent weeks on every year of my growing up, and the birthday parties that she planned for months in advance throughout the entirety of my childhood, and the way that she offers her home up for every holiday and every "just for fun" party that she can, and the way that she she treats every single friend of mine as if they're family. The way she keeps the pantry stocked with snacks for every person who steps foot inside, and the way she remembers your favorite tea and makes sure to have a kettle ready every time you come over, and the way she never leaves the house without a car packed with care packages prepared for the homeless, and the way she remembers everyone's birthday and finds a way to make it special, and how she never goes to bed without telling everyone how much she loves them- she can't. I've watched her throw birthday parties for friends of mine who didn't have parents to throw one for them, and seen even the most closed off individuals decide to open up to her. She's warm, and she makes everyone feel wanted and adored. Her love is so loud that it's felt by people who have never even met her. It echoes through the streets of our hometown. Sometimes, when she cries, she apologizes to me for not being strong enough to contain the sadness, and I just want to tell her how impossible it seems to hold it in, when all you do is love so freely. How can you love so hard, and not sometimes be hurt because of it? How can you love someone, and not sometimes bear the pain of their own hurt? And how can you overflow with love, and not sometimes overflow with sadness because of that deep love? I think we share a heart sometimes- and if anyone has ever noticed it in me, the way I notice it in her, it would be the greatest thing I could ever be recognized for.
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