I grew up knowing that my mother was beautiful.
That was what everybody said. I saw old pictures of her from her college yearbook, in which she had been selected as a “campus beauty” by her fellow students. But until recently, I haven’t really comprehended that she was truly beautiful.
To me, she was just Mother. Now that she’s gone, I realize she was objectively beautiful to other people in a way I could never see. I get that now.
This seems to have been typical of my relationship with a mother who I knew, but didn’t know. I’ve spent my life thinking I knew her — what she looked like, what she sounded like, what she did, why she did the things she did — and I’ve constantly had to re-interpret what I thought I knew.
That re-interpretation continues on this Mother’s Day — which happens to be my birthday as well — and I suspect it always will continue, because I have a need to come up with my own answers about her. For too long, I believed the things other people told me to believe about her. I can’t do that anymore.