I can still taste the rich chocolate and the light crust. The only sound would be the scrape of forks and the sighs of contentment. We’d sit around the kitchen table, my brother and sister, my dad and my mother, and myself, with a slice of homemade chocolate pie on our plates.
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She slaved over each pie, with instructions so complicated that I gave up on ever learning how to do it properly. The pie was her own creation, and it was a little bit of heaven right here on earth. Chocolate covered cherries, Hershey’s kisses, Dove chocolate bars and chocolate pie were her favorites. I can’t open a can of Coca-Cola and hear that splash and fizz as it gushes over a cup of ice without thinking of her, raising a glass to her lips and saying, “Ah. In her later years, when money was not scarce, she always had plenty of Cokes in the house. I didn’t know it then, but that extra money came from my mother going without a Coca-Cola that same Saturday night. Every once in a while, there would be enough extra money to treat me to a magazine or a candy bar. She would buy just enough Cokes for every one of us to have a can with our Saturday evening dinner. The meat had to be just right, the cans undented, the vegetables perfectly ripe. In the store, she would select our groceries carefully because that’s what you do when there’s not enough money to go around. “It’s amazing how so many perfectly normal folks lose all common sense when they drive,” she said more than once. I remember watching her as she gripped the steering wheel. Food was one of her love languages, and she was exceptional at feeding us well.Įvery Saturday, she drove us to Kroger, just me and her.
She filled the dishes and washed the dishes clean. She cooked there, stirring food boiling in pots and cutting vegetables, seasoning meat and filling glasses before dinner. A constant refrain of memory, like a song that loops endlessly, is the sight of my mother standing in our kitchen.
How many more times over my life, I wonder, did my mother press her hands to my face? She used her fingers to smooth my brow when I was worried, to wipe the tears from my cheeks, to cup my face in her hands when she looked at me with pride and to pull me close to hug me. That’s really all I remember of that day - the boxes stacked against the wall and the touch of her hand - just single images, like snapshots. I was 4 years old, and we were packing up to move into a new house.
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Her cool fingers, long and thin, were pressed to my skin to gauge how much fever I had. The very first memory I have is of my mother’s hands on my forehead.
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