On Mother\\\'s Day: She and I inseparable

When I describe my mother, my mom, to other people, I usually say that I cannot imagine her as separate from me. I'm surprised that I still say this, because I am an adult, and I have a healthy sense of self. I know who I am. My mom and I: we express ourselves differently. We have different goals. We were raised differently. We don't always see eye to eye.
And yet, when I think in depth about her (and because she is far away from me, this act is all I have, at times), I have immense difficulty thinking of her as a different human being. I think of us as the same person. We are so enmeshed. I feel like she is a part of my body. And by extension, I am not sure how I will make it without her. To this day, she continues to guide me, soothe me, giving her time, her energy, her support, through all the thorny times in my life.  
From the day I was born, my mom has gone above and beyond for me. She was always intensely engaged. She was present and curious and committed. She made sure I had what I needed to do my best. From her, I learned the joy of pushing my abilities to their limits. I remember late nights with her when I was in third grade, thumbing through tchotchkes at a crafts shop, so I could build a diorama of a Conestoga wagon. I remember her waiting patiently on weekends at a university library, where I would read articles and print pictures of Egyptian pharaohs for a social studies poster (that, in retrospect, probably didn't need so much time invested in it).
Without a brilliant mother, I don't know if I would have the curiosity and drive that I do now. Only as I grow older do I understand what she hoped for me. She wanted a daughter who set her horizons far and high. She sent me on every class trip - to Italy, to Japan, to France - because she wanted me to see the world. She encouraged me to take piano, to paint and draw and write. She loved, and loves, the arts and she wanted me to be cultured and sensitive and brave. She read widely, as she was an English major and a lover of great novels, poetry and music. Without even realising the echoes and parallels in our stories, I followed in her path, finding a love of the same in my life.
People tell me stories of how she dressed me meticulously, and spent countless hours making sure I looked and felt good about my little self. She'll call me, now, with her memories of hunting for a certain dress or jacket or pair of shoes. She'll ask me: "I had to go to three (four, five) places to find them; do you remember?" I say that I do, even if I don't. She's not really talking about the dress, or jacket, or the pair of shoes. The memory she's relating, for me, isn't about the clothing; it is about the caring, the hope, and the desires she had for me, wrapped up in the search for a certain item. That search represents how she wanted me to respect myself, to seek dignity and peace and fulfilment.
As I write this, I'm looking through a small blue photo album from the '90s, with thick matte photos stuck permanently under plastic protector pages. There are pictures of us outside our old home, and at an amusement park, and on my 4th, 5th and 6th birthdays. One of my favourite pictures is of the two of us on a bench, having a picnic beside a river, after touring Mount Vernon. She had an orange backpack from her college days that she continued to carry when we'd go on these trips.  
Looking at these pictures can hurt, not in the sense of acute pain, but more like a dull ache. My mom has made so many unimaginable, colossal sacrifices for me that I feel overwhelmed trying to articulate them to you. And if I feel this ache thinking of her, I can't know what she feels, what a mother feels, how she has her heart so tethered to someone out in the world, always, in the most profound, unshakeable way. No matter the depth of my feelings for my mom, I know that she will always feel more for me.
I hope I can honour all the dreams she had and continues to have for me, by being the best, most committed, loyal and driven person I possibly can be. I try to honour my talent, in honour of her. I hope to be present for her when she needs me, in the way that she has always been for me. I hope that gift is enough.

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