Reflections from a Daughter

Reflections from a Daughter Mary Clare Glen

Cold Winter Mornings

My eyes, caked with sleep, slowly crackle open and greet the morning light. Frosty windowpanes and a giant whoosh of arctic air invade my warm sanctuary as I push away the blankets; it hits me like ice cold water upon first jump into a swimming pool. Stunned, I hesitate a moment, then scamper downstairs skittering quickly along the long linoleum floor and jump into her arms. She's warm, soft, and waiting for me. We sit together in the quiet kitchen in front of the open oven door which radiates tropical temperatures in the middle of January. Cozy, I peer out into the yard: it is encased in four feet of untouchable, child-sinking snow. Longingly, I sigh and lay my head back against her breast, listening to a sweet lullaby tinged with the scent of coffee.

Bad Dream

Sweat drenches the back of my neck; my cropped hair drips salty drops on devoted stuffed animals. There is a monster in my room, I can feel it waiting for me. Thin, faded sheets and bed covers offer no protection against the unseen but menacing force. Courageously, I place my big toe on the rainbow colored carpet: it's under my bed just waiting to get a hold of my toe, then my foot, then my leg, then...as if lightening has struck me, I bolt out of my room. Blackness of night overwhelms me as I pad silently to my place of safety. Practice and memory have taught me where to step over books and around chairs toward her bed. I lay down next to the bed where her she is sleeping, my eyes peering into the gaping cavern underneath her bed. In fetal position, I lay silently on the rough, scratchy carpet and listen to her breathing. I am not afraid.

The Five Senses

I hear the floorboards creak underneath the worn, sea foam carpet before I see her. Nestled in her bed, I sit quietly and ponder. Without a word, she climbs into bed next to me, her body damp from the bath, the peach fuzz around her ears moist from lotion. She gingerly combs her brittle, colorless hair: it is tired, worn out from the years of meeting impossible beauty expectations. I gently take the pic from her hand and smooth over the bare spots toward the back of her head. As I play with her hair she rubs her narrow, perfectly manicured feet, sore from decades of cramped nurses' shoes and high heels. I look down and for the millionth time, wish I had inherited her thin legs.

Strolling

The outdoor mall, beautiful and vibrant with blooming tulips and roses, paints a picture of simplicity and freshness. The sun is like a warm blanket tossed from the dryer on our bodies; enveloped in warmth, arm in arm, we shop. Spring has finally committed and in its rebirth, our dreams sprout from a long winter's nap. Lazily, we meander from one store to another, not caring if we look at shoes, Christmas ornaments, or furniture. Our conversation guides us. It is simple, wishful: "One day I'm going to have..."; "the man I'm going to marry will be..."; "I want to change..."; "I'll have to remember to..."; "I hope that..." There are no promises made, no sense of skepticism taints the tone; just innocent, honest wishes softly whispered amongst the shuffling sound of shoes on a scuffed sidewalk.

Heroine

She stands pitiful and pleading. Her eyes scream for help, relief from the burden she carries. She blinks back tears: hazel sadness awash in the sweat washing down into every crevice of her body. Back hunched, she curls inward to escape the clutches of a clinging, cruel and unyielding backpack. She is heaving, knees knocking, feet stumbling, fists clutching her splintered, tobacco walking stick for stability. I stand sweating silently beside her, proud to be hiking the Appalachian Trail with this 62 years old woman, wife of 38 years, mother of 4, avid tennis player and golfer, mentor and friend.