Mum had the softest hands. She kept her nails well manicured, filing them as they grew long and painting them a rosy brown color. In the summer she lathered her skin with Hawaiian tropic dark tanning oil and lay out in the backyard sun until her skin was three shades darker. She wore her hair with volume and curl to match her big brown eyes and megawatt smile. She drove a butter colored Mercedes Benz with tan interior that had heavy doors and guzzled diesel gasoline.
In the afternoons she would cool down in the air conditioning, laying on top of her bed reading murder mystery novels. I would sprawl across her feet and gently rub my cheeks against her legs. I would ask her questions about nothing and she would answer without us ever locking eyes but if I close mine now I can still smell her skin. Other times she would stand in front of the refrigerator, door wide open, letting the air cool her hot skin, stabbing maraschino cherries from the jar with her nails and eating them, a bunch at a time like they were concord grapes.
I couldn’t count the amount of times we held hands - in the car, at the mall, laying next to her after she died. How many mornings she woke me up with back tickles or called to tell me to look up at the pink sky. What I can count on one hand is the number of times she got angry. I can still feel her vibrating if I stand still. She had controlled anger. My mother always seemed and lead me to believe she had everything under control. So when she got angry I understood it was serious but I still felt safe.
What do you do with your anger? Are you afraid of it? Do you feel in control when it fills your body and makes your face hot? Do you try and push it down? Pretend its not there? Do you try to erase all the reasons for your anger? Pretend the shit from your life never happened? Replace it with going to the gym and eating well? Or do you ask your anger to tell you what it needs? Invite it to sit at the head of the table? Agree to meet the standards your anger sets in order for it to exist with all the other parts of you?
What color is your anger? What temperature is it? What sensation is it? When it makes your head feel like it could explode can you make that feeling melt and drip down, all the way through your body and out through the bottoms of your feet? Down into the root you ground yourself with? And let it water that root and help it to grow stronger with your angers intelligence and wisdom?
The color of my anger is the shade of my mum memories. Rosy, reddish, brown. It is warm and smart and tells me where to go and when to listen. When to stay put and sit still and focus. To be quiet, to be ok, to be alone, to be strong, to be a woman that takes up space and holds her arms out for the world to hold her and never swallow her whole. My anger is the color of my mother’s beating heart, her pinkened sunned skin, her manicured nails. It is the lipstick color I wear that leaves stains of love behind when I kiss my husbands handsome face. My anger runs deep, far and wide. Never in pain, never in fear, never taking always giving, always holding, always full.
I can feel from your words the love you had for your Mom. Made me feel about my mom tonight thanks for the read