For My Mother by Derek K. Bryant

I remember my mother’s face at each stage of my life. Well, almost each stage. And I always loved her laughter face, though sometimes it made me cry. You see, I could hardly ever tell whether my mom was crying because her laughter face seemed so similar to her crying face. My mother laughed loudly, and with a high pitch. It seemed as though someone was tickling her because her eyes would water profusely.

My mother’s angry face would terrify even my oldest brother, and cause our hearts to race uncontrollably, our hands to sweat, and our pupils to dilate! You see, we knew what would follow would be a slap or an angry word. But the most horrific, mind-numbing phrase my mom would utter would be spoken tenderly, “Let us wait until your father gets home.” Oh, my God!  We would run like an escaped death-row inmate who has already his last meal. We sought hiding places, but none we found offered enough space for our small frames. So never did we successfully hide from my father. My father, whose preamble to his quick and exceedingly painful spankings issued with callused hands, was complete and utter psychobabble. My mother was cruel to ever softly and serenely utter the phrase, “Wait until your father gets home.” It still gives me the shivers even today.

My mother’s sad face would often elicit tears from my eyes, and would cause my heart to ache and throb hysterically. Nothing would cause me more fidelity of feeling than to see the heart of she who bore me buried in despondency. Her hands would venture to envelop her face, but her hot tears would escape through her fingers as she attempted to hide from view this vulnerability from her children.

My mother’s face that she wore the most was her loving face. I saw it when she walked me to school, and when I moved to Texas and she cried for three days straight. I saw it when I joined the Army, and when I returned home from various locations while I served my Uncle Sam. I saw an approval and pride in my mother’s loving face that I did not understand until I became a father. This is the face my Mother wore best.

I don’t know how to say this without crying but I must. During her last days, my mother’s agony face was a face that bankrupt my heart and caused me to put on my sympathetic face. You see, my mom had a very brutal stroke, and she could not eat, drink, or speak; she could not walk, and she could barely breathe. But as I sat daily at my mother’s bedside for months, which seemed like years, I saw still my mother’s loving face, her new helpless face, her questioning face, and her angry face. No, she was not angry with me, though I think she was angry with God, or with herself for still being alive in such a pathetic state.  I watched my mother slumber, only then was she at peace.

But finally, when my darling mother passed, and lay in her bed at hospice, I climbed in bed with her and observed her serene face, her peaceful face, her freedom at last, thank God almighty, I am free at last face.

And then the time came for my mom’s last face. That face did not look at all like any of the other faces my mother wore, and yet I kissed and rubbed this face I had never seen before, and told my mother I would see her face later. I will always remember my beautiful mother’s face.