Mama's routine, a stage set as the backdrop for my exclusive role of baby boy, enabled joys of a wonderful childhood. Free to be all day long and at select times among my older brothers, when alone with mama, I was the most important person in the world. I have never felt safer, more secure than when I looked up at her as she ironed, ironing everything, daddy's handkerchiefs, sheets, pillow cases, curtains. The smell of heat pressed against linen soothed me, accompanied by unknown tunes whistled through her teeth or pursed lips. Her song was one of contentment, memorable just for its impromptu composition. Another blessed vision of mama exceeds the cinematic. The choreography of washing dishes displayed the movement of an inner dance beamed through her eyes as she looked out of the window above the sink. She wasn't watching, she was showing - her soul. The fragrance of hot soapsuds preserves this memory and places me at her skirt asking, rather blathering. For some reason I would apologize for talking too much and she would look down at me, searching my face, letting me know this was our time. I loved watching her profile as much as longing for her look. As her gaze continued beyond the porcelain sinks and knotty pine paneled cabinets, I took stock of her beauty. Her mousy brown hair falling on her shoulders silhouetted her brown skin. Her high cheek bones led to hazel eyes, those orbs of understanding, compassion, and resolve. Beautiful thick lips which she pulled together in a self-conscious attempt to keep her pensive smile from spreading into a grin. This futile exercise in modesty yielded to the involuntary and frequent laughter for which she was known. I couldn't have looked more different than she, I, towheaded, blue eyed, and terminally fair skinned, nevertheless flesh of her flesh, souls knit into the very fabric of two hearts.
