Welcome to the Month of Mom, Part II. Last week, I shared a lot of Mom’s volunteer activities and her creative side. In addition to all of those things from last week, Mom was a hospice volunteer. She loved convertibles and was particularly proud of the 1964 ½ red Mustang convertible she bought in the late ‘70s. Multiple stray cats found a home with her. She was a softball coach. She was a Sunday school teacher. She served on the E9-1-1 county board. She was a village trustee. She answered a crisis hotline. She volunteered for a domestic violence shelter. The list is endless ...

And now, here’s the continuation of a short story Mom wrote in the 1980s.

Why couldn’t her mother have left her at home? What was the lesson she was to have learned as her mother screamed at her hysterically all the way to the morgue? What was she to have gained from staring at her brother’s barely recognizable form? Would she ever forget? Could she ever forget? Only when she allowed herself to, the doctor had said. What did he know?

Grabbing her hairbrush, she stroked her full curls with vengeance, but soon, as always, her anger subsided and the brushing became graceful stroking.

Maybe a new hairstyle ...

First, the hair behind the right ear with left eye slightly covered – seductive; next, a cluster of hair like a bun covering each ear – a Swedish school girl; then, every bit of the thick locks piled on top of her head except for wisps at the ears and nape of the neck – demure, yet provocative ...

No, the family would never like it.

Again she admonished herself for feeling so good; should she not still be mourning her brother?

Gently, her expression changed to one of adoration as she thought once again of her father. She was not able to feel the same warmth for her mother as she did for her father. Was it because her mother did not seem to feel it for her? She was sure her mother had felt really good about Robert, why not about Tina? Tina was secure in her father’s love though. Was this one of those complexes Freud had written about? All of this was disturbing, but comfort came as she remembered a song her father had sung to her since she was a baby.

“Pretty baby, baby mine
look so pretty
look so fine
love your mother,
but say your mine”  

Again and again, she sang as she searched the room for a pea.

A peek into the button basket was rewarded with only the slightest glimpse of a very tiny spider scurrying to hide from her scrutiny under the very button which was most like his color. How could these mindless creatures of nature do it? Was it luck? Do they knowingly have a sense of camouflage? Adaptation, wasn’t that what her biology teacher would call it? Yes, she believed it was.

“Pretty baby, baby mine
look so pretty
look so fine
love your mother,
but say your mine”

On to the jewel box. Such an array of rings, pins, bracelets, necklaces, and hair ornaments – gold, silver, ruby-red, emerald-green, diamond-like rhinestones, plastic and glass – all of them tarnished or clouded over with age; all except one piece. The emerald green in the eyes of the furry brown cat pin still flashed brightly as it caught the light, just as her brother had said her eyes did when he got her angry or excited, which only caused them to flash all the more as he teased her about them. She lifted the pin from the case and fastened it to her pajama top. She had worn it only once. Maybe her brother hadn’t noticed, or maybe he had. Would he have liked her to wear it more?

It’s too late now. I’ll never know. Why was I so selfish? I never even told him what a neat brother he really was!

As the tears spilled down her cheeks, she found herself ripping the pin from her pajamas causing a snag to blemish the otherwise perfectly smooth silk top.

Now look what I’ve done! Why am I always such a brat?

Taking a deep breath, she regained her composure and found solace in repeating her daddy’s rhyme.

“Pretty baby, baby mine
look so pretty
look so fine
love your mother,
but say your mine”

mmmmmm ... still no pea.