an ode to my mother, the magic maker
 
I clearly remember being 5 years old. I remember the intoxicating smell from big cans of Benjamin Moores the day my mother let me paint my own furniture. She stripped me down to my underwear with the little flowers, pulled my hair into a messy braid, tore three holes in a Hefty garbage bag that became my "artist's smock", and my 3 year old brother and I spent the better half of a Sunday painting our bed frames on the small porch of our apartment overlooking the lake where we would feed the turtles. I can still feel the plastic against my skin, the dried paint under my nails. 

That apartment became our castle, our refuge. We'd come home after a long day braving school and the real world, and wash off any remnants of reality dancing in the front yard sprinklers. We'd trudge up the stairs with our uniforms heavy with the weight of the water and leave them in a sopping heap at the front door. We'd climb from Welcome mat to coffee table to love seat to bar stool to the bathroom, because the floor was lava. 

After a hot bath with every last non-plush toy we owned, we would sit on the kitchen bar, alongside our beta fish. We'd scarf down tofu, mochi, and cucumbers dipped in soy sauce like it was candy. Then, my mother would turn off every light in the house and set a step stool on the kitchen tile. She'd lay down a piece of foil and two tealight candles and we would roast marshmallows in the heat of the flames. 

Some nights, the two of us would ask to have a slumber party in our closet. She always let; tucking us in and reading us a story, the three of us cozy together in a tight space. 

Other nights, she'd kiss our foreheads and leave the room. I knew the drill. I would lie there patiently until I heard my brother's breath heavy with sleep. I would quietly crawl out of my bed and into the living room. I would set up a game of Candyland while my mother prepared two cups of tea, chamomile with milk and honey. We called it "Special Time". We could not have chosen a better name. 

I was a very sensitive kid. Some nights, I would cry. I missed my father, my Bubby, my Zeidy, our old house, our bunny. On those nights my mother would let me sleep in her bed, her heavy quilt and big mattress swallowing me in it's folds. I'd sit up as tears streamed down my face. Her voice soft but confident would say, "It's okay. Tears are like the rain. They wash out old feelings and bring in brand new ones." When I had exhausted myself, she would slide "The Sound of Music" into the VCR, the screen would flash blue as we settled in next to each other and fall asleep watching our favorite movie. 

On the way back to school the next day we'd listen to the Grease soundtrack, belting out "tell me more, tell me more" at the top of our lungs, the windows open. On our way home we'd stop at the park, we'd go to the library. We'd come home with stacks of books, piles of videos. 

And when it rained, every single time it rained, we would run outside and dance in the rain drops, letting the new feelings in. 




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