A Really, Really Long Distance Mother's Day Phone Call

"Mom, where are you?" I said. My query was directed to the computer’s screen. We were using iChat, and I was anxious to see my mother’s face.

"A minute, a minute," I could hear her say.

I turned up the volume on my Mac and heard clicks — a lipstick top being circled downward, a pocket mirror snapped shut.

"You don’t have to put on a face for me," I said. I raised my voice, not only because we were using technology to manage our two-way conversation, but also because my mother and I were so far away from each other. Me, here on earth. Her, up in heaven. I had managed a similar conversation with my father using an iPhone app and because of that success; I decided to try a visual iChat with Mom. So far; so good.

"What kind of example would I set coming to see my daughter with a plain face?" she asked. Slowly, the colored pixels on my screen swirled and combined into my mother’s beautiful face. Blue eyes the color of Lake Michigan, Max Factor’s bold red lipstick, and pinkish rouge that highlighted her cheeks as she smiled.

"You look gorgeous as always," I said. I was telling the truth. In all the 67-years of her life, I doubt if she had a homely minute. Even when she lay in the hospital, on the last day of her life, she remained the prettiest woman I had ever seen.

"So, you’re still wearing your hair grey," she said. The corners of her mouth turned down, as did her voice. "And so short? Why not a little color? I liked it when you were a redhead," she continued. "Some length wouldn’t be so bad either."

I laughed. When she was on earth, judgments like that would sting. But with her gone more than 20 years, I relished any of her comments. And, I was a big girl now, a mother and grandmother, four years older than she ever got to be. With age and wisdom, I realized her enormous love for me pushed her improvement efforts.

"Listen, Mom," I said. "I have to apologize. I think I was too hard on you in my memoir."

(The Division Street Princess: A Memoir)

"You think?" she repeated. The tone was sarcastic, but she was smiling. Her eyes confirmed she was kidding.

"Writers embellish," she said. She tossed a manicured hand upward, as if to fling my apology away. "That's what I told the crowd here. She had to have conflict, drama. What kind of an author would my daughter be, I told them, if it was blah. No fights."

"Whew, I’m glad to hear that," I said. "I've been worried about your reaction."

A Really, Really Long Distance Mother's Day Phone Call

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