The Woman in Me
When they say piles of poop stand taller than her, they were not lying. She is five feet even and although she is a squirt of a woman, I look up to her, both physically and figuratively. I’ve seen her physical appearance change through the years as I have changed with time. Her extremely fine dirty blond hair has been at times long, short, straight, and curly. It has been all shades of blond, brown, and red. The color did not matter to me. My favorite style was long and straight which made her rosy cheeks and golden green eyes sparkle; reminiscent of the days of her youth, before life and its challenges jaded her perception which took the sparkle away. Today, her hair is short and red. I believe hair is like a favorite pair of shoes that are worn until one day a new shiny pair commands attention. I am not fond of the “shoes” she chooses to wear these days. Time has been kind to her face as the wisdom of her years is not immediately reflected in the creases of her skin. When I look at her, I hope that life will bestow its kindness upon me, that I may retain my youthful look so that one might have to gaze deep into my eyes to see the wisdom of my years as I have to do to her. The most interesting physical feature she possesses is her hands. I’ve seen these hands before. They are the hands of my great grandmother, my grandmother, and my self. They are small yet strong. They are capable of so much and nothing at all. At times, they have held the world in their pale, creased palms.
When they say piles of poop stand taller than her, they were not lying. She is five feet even and although she is a squirt of a woman, I look up to her, both physically and figuratively. I’ve seen her physical appearance change through the years as I have changed with time. Her extremely fine dirty blond hair has been at times long, short, straight, and curly. It has been all shades of blond, brown, and red. The color did not matter to me. My favorite style was long and straight which made her rosy cheeks and golden green eyes sparkle; reminiscent of the days of her youth, before life and its challenges jaded her perception which took the sparkle away. Today, her hair is short and red. I believe hair is like a favorite pair of shoes that are worn until one day a new shiny pair commands attention. I am not fond of the “shoes” she chooses to wear these days. Time has been kind to her face as the wisdom of her years is not immediately reflected in the creases of her skin. When I look at her, I hope that life will bestow its kindness upon me, that I may retain my youthful look so that one might have to gaze deep into my eyes to see the wisdom of my years as I have to do to her. The most interesting physical feature she possesses is her hands. I’ve seen these hands before. They are the hands of my great grandmother, my grandmother, and my self. They are small yet strong. They are capable of so much and nothing at all. At times, they have held the world in their pale, creased palms.
Aside from her physical appearance, she has a “jene se qua.” Her presence commands attention when she enters a room. As a child I found an annoyance with her boisterous personality and inability to shut up. I thought of her as a typical New Yorker: loud, outspoken, and un-educated. As an adult, her sweet voice of concern still grates on my last nerve at times, but is, nonetheless, welcomed in my life. When I look in the mirror, I see her five-foot glory condensed into my four foot, ten inch body. She passed down to me not only her genetic trait of midget-ness but everything I ran away from as a kid. She has become and always was the woman in me. I began to appreciate her experiences of growing up in the poverty-stricken streets of Brooklyn which inspired an attitude of confidence that seems to transcend the expectation of anyone who meets her. I began to see how she stands as tall as she can and does not allow anyone to stand in her way. I understand why she fights vigorously for what she believes in. I felt compassion when she fell down teaching me to see her as the most imperfect person I know. Her loud voice, the one I hear in my deepest thoughts rings endlessly in my ears, reminding me of her faults which then helps me avoid mistakes of my own. She started out weak but over time has gained the inner strength that can not be knocked down. All of her achievements, the smell of sweet success, and all of her mistakes made her who she is today. She is a woman. She is a friend. She is my mother.
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