All Quotes By Tag: Mothers

“I love you,” was his reply. “I make myself keep on loving you, despite what you do. I’ve got to love you. We all have to love you, and believe inyou, and think you are looking out for our best interests. But look at us, Momma, and really see us.”

“MY MOTHER GETS DRESSEDIt is impossible for my mother to do eventhe simplest things for herself anymoreso we do it together,get her dressed.I choose the clothes withoutzippers or buckles or straps,clothes that are simplebut elegant, and easy to get into.Otherwise, it’s just like every other day.After bathing, getting dressed.The stockings go on first.This time, it’s the new ones,the special ones with opaque black trianglesthat she’s never worn before,bought just two weeks agoat her favorite department store.We start with the heavy, careful stuff of the right toesinto the stocking tipthen a smooth yank past the knob of her ankleand over her cool, smooth calfthen the other toecool ankle, smooth calfup the legsand the pantyhose is coaxed to her waist.You’re doing great, Mom,I tell heras we ease her bodyagainst mine, rest her whole weight against meto slide her black dresswith the black empire collarover her headstruggle her fingers through the dark tunnel of the sleeve.I reach from the outsidedeep into the dark for her hand,grasp where I can’t see for her touch.You’ve got to help me a little here, MomI tell herthen her fingertips touch mineand we work her fingers through the sleeve’s mouthtogether, then we rest, her weight against mebefore threading the other fingers, wrist, forearm, elbow, bicepand now over the head.I gentle the black dress over her breasts,thighs, bring her makeup to her,put some color on her skin.Green for her eyes.Coral for her lips.I get her black hat.She’s ready for her company.I tell the two women in simple, elegant suitswaiting outside the bedroom, come in.They tell me, She’s beautiful.Yes, she is, I tell them.I leave as they carefullyzip her intothe black body bag.Three days later,I dream a large, greensuitcase arrives.When I unzip it,my mother is inside.Her dress matchesher eyeshadow, which matchesthe suitcaseperfectly. She’s wearingcoral lipstick.”I’m here,” she says, smiling delightedly, wavingand I wake up.Four days later, she comes homein a plastic black boxthat is heavier than it looks.In the middle of a meadow,I learn a nakedmore than naked.I learn a new way to hugas I tighten my fistaround her body,my hand filled with her ashesand the small stones of bones.I squeeze her tightthen open my handand release herinto the smallest, hottest sun,a dandelion screaming yellow at the sky.”

“And then it occurs to me. They are frightened. In me, they see their own daughters, just as ignorant, just as unmindful of all the truths and hopes they have brought to America. They see daughters who grow impatient when their mothers talk in Chinese, who think they are stupid when they explain things in fractured English. They see that joy and luck do not mean the same to their daughters, that to these closed American-born minds “joy luck” is not a word, it does not exist. They see daughters who will bear grandchildren born without any connecting hope passed from generation to generation.”

“For if the nature of the story is such that my mother left me with deficits and scars, I can know that the nature of God is such that He will leave me blessings and health.”

“Mothers were the only ones you could depend on to tell the whole, unvarnished truth.”

“MOTHER IS WATERI wish I couldShower your head with flowersAnd anoint your feet with my tears,For I know I have caused youSo much heartache, frustration and despair –Throughout my youthful years.I wish I could give youThe remainder of my lifeTo add to yours,Or simply eraseThe lines on your face,And mend all that has been torn.For next to God,You are the fireThat has given lightTo the flame in each of my eyes.You are the fountainThat nourished my growth,And from your chalice –Gave me life.Without the wetness of your love,The fragrance of your water,Or the trickling sounds ofYour voice,I shall always feelthirsty.”

“I always wondered why God was supposed to be a father,” she whispers. Fathers always want you to measure up to something. Mothers are the ones who love you unconditionally, don’t you think?”

“Girls,” their mother interjected, “you must both stop being strange – it is unattractive. And don’t forget your hats. It would be absolutely the end for me if you two came down with freckles at a time like this.”

“Everyone is guilty at one time or another of throwing out questions that beg to be ignored, but mothers seem to have a market on the supply. “Do you want a spanking or do you want to go to bed?” Don’t you want to save some of the pizza for your brother?” Wasn’t there any change?”

“The big difference between my mom and me– besides the fact that she is dead normal and I’m a magic-handling freak– is that she’s the real thing. She may have a slight problem seeing other people’s points of view, but she’s honest about it. She’s a brass-bound bitch because she believes she knows best. I’m a brass-bound bitch because I don’t want anyone getting close enough to find out what a whiny little knot of naked nerve endings I really am. ”

“My first words, as I was being born […] I looked up at my mother and said, ‘that’s the last time I’m going up one of those.”

“You are doing God’s work. You are doing it wonderfully well. He is blessing you, and He will bless you, –even–no, -especially–when your days and your nights may be most challenging. Like the woman who anonymously, meekly, perhaps even with hesitation and some embarrassment, fought her way through the crowd just to touch the hem of the Master’s garment, so Christ will say to the women who worry and wonder and weep over their responsibility as mothers, `Daughter, be of good comfort; thy faith hath made thee whole.’ And it will make your children whole as well.”

“Sweater, n. Garment worn by child when its mother is feeling chilly.”

“The most remarkable thing about my mother is that for thirty years she served the family nothing but leftovers. The original meal has never been found.”

“Well then,” Roen said briskly, “are you sleeping?””Yes.””Come now. A mother can tell when her son lies. Are you eating?””No,” Brigan said gravely. “I’ve not eaten in two months. It’s a hunger strike to protest the spring flooding in the south.””Gracious,” Roen said, reaching for the fruit bowl. “Have an apple, dear.”