She had an angelic voice. The rare times that she sang us to sleep, usually when we were sick, she sang in a lovely soprano intonation. Most times though, her voice carried whatever would be considered the complete opposite sound. I asked an older sister once if she remembers mom's singing voice. She didn't recall ever being sung to as a child.
Every Mother's Day, social media is littered with pictures of missed mothers. Mothers whose children wish for just one more day with them. Children who have lovely memories of mothers they cherish; mothers who were even their best friend. I tend to feel guilty about not posting similar fond remembrances for my own mother.
I know without a doubt that she did the best she could with what she knew and the resources she had. We were clothed, and fed, and sheltered. I know she didn't set out to be an unmissed mother. I know she was only human, with her own demons. That's why I feel guilty, sad, and wishful. Because even though I don't necessarily fault her, I can't bring myself to miss her.
Mom's demeanor was volatile. Most times verbally. Sometimes physically. Almost always emotionally. And the intensity varied per child, mood, alcohol level, financial situation, love life, any and all outside factors. My older siblings learned to sleep with the covers over their head. When mom came home in the middle of the night - drunk, looking for a fight - she couldn't choose a victim if she didn't know who was who. Sometimes, that didn't stop her. She’d just pick the one closest to the doorway.
Accusations were her weapon of choice. Words upon words of untruth. Her reality was not reality. Vulgar, insane, nonsensical ramblings flung like spears. Spears to pierce, shame, confuse, and annihilate. She had an unhealthy view of sex. We were all doing it, in her mind, with our opposite sex friends, teachers, whomever she saw us have a healthy relationship with. Eventually, we learned to ignore. We stopped believing her beliefs - about herself and us.
There was some laughter. Fun. When she had a few extra dollars, we were treated to outings. Trips to the movie theater – we watched Star Wars three times in a row. Eating out – the original James Coney Island in downtown Houston was a favorite. Board and card games – Rummy, Sorry. All short-lived. All enjoyed with breath held for the next outburst. She was a sore loser.
Therefore, I don't miss her. I so wish she was a mother worth missing. I wish I could post her picture with gushing words of loving remembrances. Maybe next year. Or the year after. Maybe someday.
