In a lucky coinciding with Mother's Day, my own mother visited me on my weekend, Wednesday & Thursday. Since she lives over 6000 miles away, this is a rare gift. All went (relatively) according to plan. I picked her up in a surprising late-night downpour, nearly tipping the car in a combination of the slick roads and a reading of one of Eudora Welty's stories on NPR. ("Do not listen while operating vehicle in unfavorable weather if at all sleepy" should preface...)
So we did what people do in Seattle. We consumed about twenty-five cups of coffee; we jogged to the park; we shopped at Trader Joe's; we took the bus; we wore hoods to stave off the water; ate Thai food in contortedly cross-legged positions in Fremont; Pike Place; after watching the Young Victoria, we appropriately took a clipper to Victoria, B.C.; and, of course, the sun arriving in the city just as my mother was to depart.
People used to say we looked alike. It is easy to see how: dark-haired and dark-eyed, cowlicks in our widow's peaks and pearish bodies. Everywhere we went - on planes, to movies - strangers would look and us and ask if we were sisters or (my mother's friends) "I bet you hear this all the time, but you look just like your mother." A compliment, because my mother is beautiful.
I hear our comparison less now because we are rarely in the same place and because my mom has become very svelte and is perpetually tanned, and because we wear our hair differently. But I think I carry her genes strongly in my cells.
Her hair is thick and undiluted brown, a full serving of pasta in the palm, a sturdy forest.