The Matriarch

Simply referred to as mommy.  I do not know why I never graduated to the simpler, one-syllable form, mom.  She has been my mommy for 58 years.  She took up residence here in California after her migration from Mexico.  Guadalajara, to be exact.  Maybe it was the street signs and names of towns that appealed to her.  After all, we have San Diego, Santa Ana, Santa Monica, etc., that bring a certain measure of comfort to a newly arrived immigrant whose native tongue is Spanish.  My mommy is a hard worker.  She listened and learned.  Eventually, English took on a less intimidating, less imposing figure.

Mommy and I have been sparring partners more than once.  She sees things her way, and I see things my way.  We have been through some tricky maneuvers.  We both love the colors yellow and green. She loves books — I love books. She is an artist and she uses oil paints to create paintings worthy of art shows. I have a number of her creations in my home. She dances — I dance. The beach is a shared passion. We were both troubled by bad skin in our early years. She knew what it felt like to have her beauty compromised. She took me to a dermatologist.  People have been known to say that she and I look identical.  That’s fine by me.  She has modeled femininity. In fact, she
set the standard.

When the tide comes in mommy is not so inclined to run, jump, skip in it anymore. She has lived 87 years with mixed outcome. Some highs, and the inevitable lows. Life. We love the matriarch. Her imprint is left in the sand. Not to wash away.

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