As I stepped into the salon, a petite woman with warm eyes introduced herself as Sofia. My former stylist had relocated, and Sofia was taking on her clients.
From the moment I met her, I felt a connection. Sofia possessed a gentle charm. After asking about my profession, I shared that I was a doctor who enjoyed writing, mentioning my blog focused on parenting. Her interest was piqued.
“Is it a blog for mothers?” she inquired.
“Yes, that’s how people refer to it.”
“I would like to share about my mother.”
Sofia began to recount the story of a woman whose laughter could stop traffic in a grocery store, who slept with her hand by her mouth, and who moved with the grace of a dancer. This mother, who smelled like freshly baked bread, was non-judgmental and radiated warmth. “My mother is my closest confidante,” she added.
Curious, I asked if she would get to see her mom for the upcoming holiday. Sofia paused, setting her scissors down, and replied softly, “My mother passed away 17 years ago, but it feels like just yesterday.”
The sadness in her brown eyes was palpable. She shook her head slightly as if trying to erase a memory before continuing to cut my hair in silence. After a moment, she took a deep breath and said, “I no longer celebrate this holiday. It only serves as a reminder that my childhood is gone, along with my mother.”
In that moment, I felt a deep understanding wash over me, echoing my own experiences. I had just returned from a weekend with my best friend, someone with whom I shared not just laughter but also a bond that spanned my entire life. She comforted me with Southern dishes and pedicures, reminding me of the innocence of childhood.
My mother played an integral role in my life, from my first steps to the birth of my son. She held the essence of my childhood, and Edna St. Vincent Millay once said, “Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.” This kingdom thrives within our parents, and once they are gone, it becomes a bittersweet memory—a tale to tell our own children, who wiggle in their carseats, and a treasured book resting on a shelf.
As I sat in the salon chair, a wave of emotion washed over me. I wanted to leap out and call my mom, but instead, I remained in the weighty silence. Watching Sofia skillfully trim my hair, I longed to express my gratitude but couldn’t find the right words. I ran my fingers through my newly styled hair and said, “It’s a wonderful haircut. I love it.”
Sofia beamed with pride as she handed me a mirror. After I thanked her, I felt compelled to hug her, but she didn’t seem open to that. Instead, I left with a wave, my heart full of unspoken appreciation. I was certain that Sofia would find success; she had a remarkable talent for hairstyling.
Once in my car, I fastened my seatbelt and snapped a selfie of my new look. I began to text my mom, but hesitated and ultimately deleted the message. Instead, I called out to my phone, “Call Mom.”
Two rings later, a familiar voice greeted me.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mom?” My voice trembled, revealing my emotions.
“I just wanted to say I love you, Mom.”
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In summary, the bond between a mother and child is profound and irreplaceable. The stories we carry about our parents shape our identities, and even in their absence, their influence remains a guiding force in our lives.