Tag Archives: Mother’s Day

Matrescence.

In the back of her closet, behind the clothes, next to the dresser, were two shoe boxes, each of which held a pair of peau de soie-wrapped stilettos, one pair cream, the other bright kelly green, both size 7 AAAA. I’m certain about the cream colored pair, which were her wedding shoes. I’m less sure…

Mother daughter dinner dance.

For a handful of years in my early 20s my mother was my favorite date. She was divorced; I was yet to be either tethered or anchored. I had no boyfriend, no apartment, no career track, and no plans. Memphis was a temporary stop – a train station transfer, perhaps, if only I could figure…

Mother’s Day, with gas.

This year for Mother’s Day I bought myself a SodaStream. ******** Two years ago, in my worst-ever performance playing the role of Mom, I did not receive the Mother’s Day present I requested (for three years in a row), so I stormed down the stairs screaming, “I’ll just buy my own damn Mother’s Day present!”…

Happiness is.

Since May 2006, every year for Mother’s Day my family has reluctantly agreed to be photographed. They, my husband in particular, are very unwilling subjects. They, my husband in particular, also know that photographing them makes me happy. When I’m happy, everyone’s happy, or so I’m told. In college, my friend Steve once told me…