Mama kept her bedroom curtains open so that in the morning she would be woken by the sun. She would point the foot of her bed toward the east-facing widow when possible. She would drink her tea in the warmth of the sun rays, and plan her work schedule around gardening time. Every weekend drive had a road-side landmark, when ”the lighting” was praised.
I’ve come to notice that I chase the light now, the warm yellows and Southwest rays. In truth, it is the presence of my mother, and all the essence of her that comforted me as a child, and made me present, still, safe; and so it is love. And if my mother is looked past, it is all those that came before her, and those that come *from* her; and so it is life.
In this early light, seven hundred and thirty mornings since I last held her hand, the anniversary of her passing carves out time for remembrance of the lifeforces that came before me. Those resilient, traumatized immigrants and natives, continue to pump out innovative, fierce, motivated human beings… and as I turn my face to the truth of the morning glow, today I’m softened and reassured that all is as it should be.