Mom. I miss her. I went back to a list of “Things I Learned From My Mother” that I read at her memorial years ago. I wish she could have heard it: quietly doing good things for people, sharing her decorator’s eye, always moving forward no matter what, squealing with delight when my 2-year-old handed her a half-eaten cracker.
A woman who went to architectural school in 1926 when women rarely went to college, without family support, a minority rose among the men in the school. That has always been an inspiration to me. Not to be held back by convention.
Yet, at home she failed to protect me from a complex father who erupted at the slightest unpredictable annoyance.
“You have to understand, his mother died when he was a baby,” she consoled. Nope, no comfort there.
That was her weak spot. Not standing up to him. Not acknowledging his behavior was hurtful. Even leaning on me for comfort.
She taught me to hide from men, although I did not include that in my memorial list. Sneaking out with me in tow, slinking along the prickly stucco wall of our house and jumping into a waiting taxi taking us to the train station. No explanation.
Escape. My 8-year-old mind registering: Danger! Excitement! Adventure!
And, New York City! Having my mom all to myself. Sleeping in the tiny bedroom attached to her decorator’s firm office. Lunch at the fancy café on Madison Avenue where the tables are side by side in a row, the crisp white linen napkins standing alert on the plate. I can order anything I want.
I don’t want to be anywhere but here, not having a thought about the dad we left behind.
I loved the description of the flight in NYC -- the napkins standing alert, the sense of excitement, danger. The child loving the adventure, the adult looking back and seeing many more layers...
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