“Oh, this is so ugly!”
I held up the orange and black floral sweater—the fourth QVC gift that had been delivered in the past two weeks. The last one was an oversized paisley blouse with golden beads on the fringes.
Ten years ago, I frequently received packages from a catalog-based retailer called Vermont Country Store. My mother would buy me these oversized granny nightgowns. As a married woman in her early 40s, I found them to be not only unwanted, but also hideous. No matter how many times I pleaded with Mom to stop throwing away her money, and no matter how many times she’d apologize and say, “I saw this and just wanted to give you something to keep you warm,” lo and behold, the grannies kept coming.
Now I don’t give Mom a hard time anymore—about anything—especially not for gifting me clothes that she’d love but I’d never buy for myself. When a QVC package arrives with a shirt or sweater that I’d never want to wear, I wear it—even to work. I no longer care that they are not in style and not in sync with what I like. I don’t care if I look fashionable or if I look pretty. All I care about is that I’m wearing something that came from my mom.
Mom had stopped calling me every night, and stopped answering her cell phone, shortly before the QVC packages started arriving. When I don’t hear her voice for several days, Mom’s surprise gifts reassure me that she’s still out there thinking about me. These packages, that I used to cringe at receiving, now give me some relief to know that Mom remembers my name, and my address, even as she’s starting to forget many other things.
I’ve traveled to San Diego three times in 2023 to visit Mom. Each time, I’ve come back to Athens feeling heartsick. Each time, Mom is weaker than the last time I saw her—even though only a couple months have passed in between my trips.
On our last day together, in July, Mom said to me, “Every year counts with me now, Jill.”
I know she’s right. I know I’ve reached that winter season in her life when there are no more birthdays or Mother’s Days or Christmases to waste.
People always tell me I look like my mother. I’ve never seen what they see—until recently. Anyone who has seen my father would understand why I’ve always thought my face resembles his. I would love to look exactly like Mom. She always was, and still is, one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Even though incurable illness has stolen years from her life, her olive skin is flawless, her smile is uplifting, and her hazel eyes are filled with color—and with love.
Yes, if only I really did look exactly like my mom. Now, when I look at photos of myself with my mother, I look hard for what people have always told me. I’m finally starting to see the resemblance they see in our facial expressions, and I’m so glad! I’m so glad I do look like her after all. Because I know that not every tree will blossom in spring. One day, spring will come, and Mom will no longer be here. But I will always look like my mom, and she will always be part of me.
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