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My First Girl

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This Mothers Day post is from the way back of time, but it still keeps. To all the Mamas out there . . Happy You Day.

Peace and love

I remember walking you home from school. We’d stop by the park and I’d push you on the swings. We’d fill our faces with chocolate bars so perilously close to supper, because we could. And then we’d laugh at having broken with such frivolous convention. We’d hike to the supermarket and trade knowing winks, as if we had committed high treason on the butcher with our chocolatey smiles.

I’d haul the heavy bags home as we talked about the Beatles and the travails of kindergarten. You were my first girl. Hey, I was rather mature for my age, and you needed a five year old best friend. You needed to know what it was to feel young. God knows you had so much of it stolen from you.

I’d tell you how beautiful you looked and how great you smelled. Compliment your shoes. Hold the door. We’d make dinner. Dad, absent; the hours with him were dissolving as work took him away from us more and more. So it was you and me. You taught me to cook. Give foot rubs. Dance. All the essentials for a boy who was just beginning to marvel at the wonders of a girl.

I was the man of the house whenever he was away, and you made me earn it. Cause a Catholic girl always does. I loved the time we spent alone, because it gave me the chance to steal that amazing laugh you possessed. I wish dad would’ve warned me about that laugh. To this day, a woman’s laugh holds a most deliciously intoxicating mystery for me. Yours was childhood, the one you never got to unwrap because you were too busy growing up, too soon. I knew enough to know too much. It’s why I beckoned that laugh whenever I could. To summon the little girl away from the primitive conclusions of this world for a little while.

Thank you for teaching me how to throw a baseball . . . how to set a table . . . how to love a woman . . . thank you for that silent conversation we shared when you came to visit me in the hospital, a conversation I might never match with spoken word if I live to 100. Thank you for the advice you would impart whenever I went searching for the answers to a woman’s heart, like the time you told me “If it was that easy to figure out a woman, there’d be no need for alcohol.”

My little girl has a middle name that comes from you, but that’s not all she carries of you. She carries your sense of humor, your honesty, your grace. And my son has your persistence and that wholesome sense of purpose that makes him my twelve year old role model.

Because of you, I spend a small fortune on Mothers Day cards. I have my own personal “Mothers Club”, and you are the reason why I lean on them so hard and love them so completely. Because of you.

You taught me that life isn’t about having all the answers. Not when comfortable shoes are so much more important.

There is a thank you in every conversation we share. But here’s one for the hell of it.

69 thoughts on “My First Girl”

  1. Oh, Marco,

    This is so beautiful. I can’t see through the tears. Your mother is blessed to have a son such as you, with such an eloquent pen to express your love for her.

    Lotsa love,

    Dale

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Lucky guy, you, to have a mama like that. I’m in touch with the laughter thing (but got that from my dad). There’s a power that just can’t be matched or explained.

    Liked by 1 person

  11. This was really beautiful. Your writing has so many layers to it. You’re E.L. Doctorow, Pat Conroy, a breath of Sedaris with a little Kerouac tossed in. Jesus…and a little him too.

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  12. Dude. Ohhhhh. Dude. I hadn’t read it before. This was so amazing. Had I read on mama’s day I would have lost it! But you’re pulling at my heart with this on any day. Every mom tries to be this kind of mom but not everyone makes it. You’re mom sounds awesome … the kind that inspires songwriters to crush it with that song that makes everyone cry because that mom is milk and cookies. I’m still glad I got a chance to read it. Have a good weekend!!

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    • There you are again Cali!

      I’m glad you caught this piece. Now we have something in common huh? I mean, other than our love of Pat Riley. You write so beautifully for Papa while I do the same for mi Mama.

      Enjoy the sun and surf!

      Liked by 1 person

      • Dude the way you talk about your mom is sooooooo touching and I can tell how amazing this person is and I only hope to reach a bit of that with my kids. Plus your kids were able to inherit pieces of her spirit and name. Beautifully written! Hope you have a great Father’s Day Weekend!

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