On My 32nd Birthday

I am not really one to get sentimental and melancholy on birthdays. I do that enough on any given Tuesday... But the combination of early morning, recovering from sickness, and the fact that I have been given the assignment to gather pictures of my mother for (yet another) tribute, have made me a little introspective and overly dramatic. It has nothing to do with my birthday, per se, but rather with my official state of grown-upedness, adulthood, woman-ness. I find that with the passing of my mother, the resentment a girl is "supposed" to feel as she turns into her mother, has been negated, or in the very least, has been pardoned to a point. I revel in the recognition of things I do that are like my mother. I embrace all the Syd-isms that leave my lips. I love every expression and characteristic of mine which is, in its basest self, hers. I love catching a glimpse of her in the mirror when I am squinting just a bit. I love seeing her face when I see pictures of myself. I love that I will be able to say to my children "THIS is what your grandmother would say." I enjoy the fact that I remind people of my mother-- that people say to me "you look just like her!" Isn't a child supposed to hate that? I am supposed to avoid turning into my parents in any way possible. But the bittersweetness is that because she is not here, it is okay, even desirable for me, to take on the attributes that were she here, I would most likely avoid. Looking through the giant box of pictures tonight, I found many that I had never seen before. There were many more which I have seen before, have looked at with my mom, have not cared to really study. They all share something-- the light that emanates from my mother's face. Perhaps most of it is in my eyes, but it is there. She is there, she is beautiful, she is smiling. And I am part of her, she is part of me, and to today I rejoice.