Mother’s Eyes
Some things are out of my control, but not the amount of myself I choose to give to those I love.
“Winnie, do you remember that ash tray you made for Mom?” My brother Isaiah, asked with a mischievous grin as soon as the waiter left our table.
I turned the menu’s glossy pages, frowning. “It wasn’t an ash tray,” I mumbled defensively for what had to be the 100th time. “It was a candy dish. So it wasn’t very good. I was in kindergarten.”
Every year, we sat at this exact table at this very restaurant to celebrate Mom’s birthday, and every year Isaiah thought it was funny to bring up the candy dish. Every year Mom said the same thing, “I thought it was lovely.”
But this year, everything was different. I watched Mom slide her hand along the table cautiously until her fingers reached her glass of water. Last year she could see. Now, she was almost blind.
Mom smiled as soon as the waiter returned with our iced teas and asked for our order. “It’ll be the usual, right, guys?” Mom asked us cheerfully.
The usual consisted of garlic bread and spaghetti. I didn’t answer her as I looked out the window to see the adjoined outdoor café. I remembered how much as a little girl I loved the taste of the tangy sauce and noodles that I slurped in between my lips as I watched Mom laugh and do the same. She never got streaks of red on her chin as I did, though.
Last year, we’d had a big argument the week before my mom’s birthday because my best friend had planned a party for the same night as Mom’s traditional dinner. I’d been so mad at her. Everything I used to love about her had become annoying to me. I cringed at the memory of my long, exasperated sighs and exaggerated rolls of my eyes that she gracefully ignored and forgave.
Wanting to Cry
“I can’t wait until after we eat to give our presents,” Dad announced cheerfully, looking at me as soon as the waiter walked away again.
I glared at him, alarmed. When I was little, I used to wiggle in my seat with eager anticipation because I wanted to give my mom her gift right away. Mom and I always liked the same thing---long novels, butterflies and flowers, and I was always positive that I’d present her with a gift she’d adore. This year, I couldn’t give her the one thing she needed most.
“Why don’t you give a piece of yourself?” Dad had suggested just a few nights before.
I bit my lip and returned his gaze as my gift for Mom sat on my lap. I wondered if I’d succeeded. “Why don’t you go ahead, Dad?” I asked, smiling,
He sighed and smiled as he pulled a small package from inside his coat. Isaiah elbowed me and rolled his blue eyes as Dad rested his hand briefly on Mom’s, and I grimaced. Mom and Dads obvious affection and dedication to one another had always been a soured of amusement for Isaiah, but instead of laughing I felt like crying as I watched her unwrap a CD.
“It’s a devotions CD,” Dad explained as if he were clarifying its contents to me and my brother, not to Mom.
“Oh, good one Dad,” Isaiah said with approval, I could hear the I-wish-I-had-thought-of-that sentiment in his voice. He grinned, though, as the waiter set down the basket of garlic bread in the center of the table. “It’s too bad you have to wait until we’re done eating for mine, Mom.”
Mom laughed, and even I had to smile as I slid my elbows off the table. I watched the waiter ser my plate of spaghetti in front of me. Isaiah wasn’t the best gift-giver in the world, but I’d always been jealous of the way he could make Mom laugh. “It’s not another frog, is it?” I teased; grateful for the chance to finally get back at him for his remark about my candy dish It wasn’t the fog that had been funny, though. It had been the sight of Isaiah running around the house trying to catch it when it got out of the shoebox.
It was these memories that had absorbed my mind as I tried to do as Dad said and “give a piece of myself”. They were also what made me cry. They were also what made me cry. They reminded me of what would never be again. Mom would be able o feel and hold a frog. But she wouldn’t see Isaiah’s comical antics. She’d be able to smell arose. But she’d never see the beautiful blooms that she loved. She’d be able to hear the rain, but she’d never see the rainbow to follow.
Giving Myself
“I can’t wait any longer,” Isaiah proclaimed as soon as his plate was empty, even though Mom was still eating. “Here.”
He handed over a package. When she unfolded the prettiest pink sweater I’d ever seen, my eyes opened wider in bewilderment.
“Feel how soft it is,” he said after clearing his throat. “Whenever you touch it, I want you to think of me.”
I stared at him, not only for the normalcy of the gift but for how sentimental he sounded. If anyone else had said those words, I would’ve called them cheesy, but because they were from him, I knew how sincere he was.
“Oh, Isaiah,” she said, “I love you so much. This is the best present you’ve ever bought me.”
“I know,” he said, leaning over a little so she could kiss him on the forehead. “Just don’t get used to it, OK?”
I smiled at him as he grinned at Dad, but the minute he noticed me, I regretted being so proud of him.
“OK.” He coaxed, elbowing me. “Your turn.”
“Well,” I said with a sigh as I put my napkin down and picked up the poem I’d written and glued onto heavy construction paper. “I wrote something for you.”
She smiled encouragingly at me and nodded. And slowly, I began to read out loud the poem I’d titled “Mother’s Eyes”.
As I read, I thought of all the times she’d been there for me, even when it meant that she had to put aside whatever was going on in her life to comfort or guide me.
You always sat and listened, feeling my happiness or pain.
Despite the pressing things to do, you wee there for us again and again.
Mom was a homemaker. She was dedicated to making our lives easier and happier. And what compensation did she receive? She never got a promotion or praise or monetary reimbursement. I thought of all the fights we’d had in the last year, especially the one before her last birthday when my actions screamed that I thought my friends were worth more than she was. And she never stopped loving me.
You brought us up with the best of your ability.
And all you needed for happiness was the love of your family.
Mother’s eyes, smiling with pride and crying for hope.
Mother’s eyes, unselfishly she gives love; somehow she learns to cope.
I had to accept what was happening to my mom. No amount of disbelief or guilt could make the glaucoma go away. What my mom needed most was my love and support, no matter what. Just like she’d given me. I knew, without a doubt, I’d given her the best gift I could .Mom was going to lose her eyesight. She wasn’t going to lose me.
Mom had tears in her eyes, but she was smiling as she dabbed at them with her napkin. I started crying, too, as she reached over for a hug.
