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"Chrysalis"
by Mary
I am visiting my mother's home. A home that has been in my family for many years. The home has seen many marriages, births and deaths.
My mother died a few days ago, of conditions originating from pancreatic cancer. Because of something called necessary legal obligations, I have been going through her belongings. I have found so many of her beautiful and feminine treasures carefully organized on her shelves and in her drawers. My mother had her share of odd belongings here and there, but she was always so methodical in her own unusual way.
I have never had my mother's preciseness and neat habits. I try to keep everything that can be seen clean, but don't look too closely, and never look underneath.
While I sat at the kitchen table, sorting through more of her things, I was thinking about what all I still needed to do. When a close relative dies, the living have to tend to those necessary legal obligations, despite the fact that the grief is heartbreaking.
I was momentarily startled when I heard the clicking sound of metal dropping onto the floor. Idly, I got down on my knees and looked around under the table to see what had dropped. I soon discovered a hair ornament, the kind that resembles a small comb. This one looked quite old, and somewhere in the back of my mind I recalled a day long ago, when my mother had mentioned that the ornament had belonged to her mother. I sat there and held the little metal comb in my hand and recalled the way my mother used to stand in front of the mirror and fix her hair so neatly into smooth and flawless waves. Sometimes she would use combs and ornaments such as this one, and the finished hairdo would look as if she had followed a mathematical formula to design and complete the project.
As a little girl, I was amazed at that world of adult women. My mother would deftly use scented creams and sachets, delicate powders, and lipsticks with the precision of a scientist preparing a formula. I looked down at the little comb in my palm and thought back to a time when my mother had worn it in a fashionable style, with the hair on one side swept completely behind her ear. It had all looked so complex to me, yet for her it was as easy as counting to five.
"What is that thing in your hair called?" I had asked her.
"They're just called small hair combs," she answered, simply. Then she added, "This one belonged to my mother, and back then the women called them waving combs. No one calls them that anymore."
"Comb is a funny word," I commented. I thought many words were funny words. "Why is it called a comb?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know," she replied, sounding rather uninterested in my musing. "Why is anything called anything? Why is blue called blue?"
I thought and replied, "Well, an orange is orange...,"
She gave me a half-smile and carefully placed all of her belongings back onto shelves and into drawers.
When I was a little older, I went through the adolescent ritual of learning to apply makeup and fix my hair. The makeup was fairly easy for me. There was only one time when my least favorite cousin told me that my lipstick looked as if I had applied it with a putty knife.
No matter what I did to my hair, however, it seemed to do what it wanted to do. It had a mind of its own. I struggled with this style and that. I grew my hair long, and then I would have it cut because my mother said, "If you can't keep it any neater than that, it's time to have it cut."
Then I would grow my hair long again. And she would say, "If you can't keep it neater than that...,"
Ladylike prim and proper neatness just wasn't meant for me. I finally reached a point in my life where I began to feel a self-consciousness because I was a "tomboy". I had never minded it before, but suddenly I felt a perceived lack of femininity.
I wanted to be lovely and stylish like my older sisters, or to look tailored and graceful like my mother. Instead, I was bad-tempered and boyish. My favorite pastimes were climbing trees and hiking. In school, I liked science and writing classes best. Worse: I even looked like a boy!
When my mother could get me to fix my hair in an "every hair in place" style and get me to dress up, she would show me off to all the relatives, friends, neighbors and church people. It was as if she thought, "This may never happen again anytime soon, so I'd better let everyone have a good look at her now."
I found myself smiling, thinking about those long ago days with Mother. Still holding the small comb, I got up from the table, walked over to a wall mirror and pulled my hair into a still fashionable style, with one side swept completely behind my ear. Then I inserted the comb. It was as easy as counting to five.
I spent another minute or so in front of the mirror, searching for the little girl in me that I knew was still there somewhere. I captured a fleeting glimpse of her, but she had changed and grown into someone who knew she was okay just the way she was. No, I don't want to give anyone the impression that I'm completely satisfied with myself. But I am free to be myself, and I can also be my mother's daughter at the same time. Like her, I am proud to be beautifully unique instead of uniquely beautiful.
I went into the living room and sat in my mother's favorite chair. I could feel her presence there. Now, some people will say I'm crazy for admitting I felt that way, but I don't care if the whole world knows, and neither would she.
-Text Copyright ©1998
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"Pancreas Cancer: The Signs and Symptoms"