sexy mama

My mom was soulful, deeply feeling, sensual, great at having fun, and very beautiful.  If it’s ok to say your own mom was sexy, I will say that.  Yeah, she was a very sexy mama.

What a contradictory lady!  She had some modesty going on, related to early trauma.  She didn’t slow cleavage or leg.  But she knew how to have fun, joke, laugh, and shake her booty.  And enjoy the pleasures of sunshine, food, and music.

Sexy is how she carried herself.  I liked her domminess, the slightly conceited way she would arch an eyebrow.  Her “really? you gotta be kidding me” attitude.  Her caring compassion with badass simmering anger beneath.  Her keen-eyed seeing of everything, and measured, confident decision making.

I felt safe with her.  She was tough.  I could relax a little bit, in public, with her.  No one was going to mess with me, but her.  If I was behaving well for her requirements, she would protect me without fail.

to dance

She was always asking me to dance.  Or telling me to, honestly.  That was some old self from before I was born.  A young teenager mama, who related through dancing and food.

She was Mexican-American, and the culture of that side of the family was very different from the culture of my dad’s side, which was white.  Dad’s side, there were no feelings but bitterness, resentment, cold demands.  Ideas of duty and judgement.

Mom’s side was warm, with great food, music, and we could hug and smile more.  Yeah, dad’s side, they didn’t really smile.

Maybe I’m a sexy lady because my mom was?  Maybe she passed to me a sexy gene, or a sexy attitude that was latent in me, until she died, and then I could be truly free.

tell me something

I was listening to music on youtube, and it played this song for me.

“Tell me something good!” was something my mom would say to me often.   I would visit, and we would be spending time together in the living room in her house.  She would want to have a conversation with me.

“Tell me something,” she would say.

“What do you want to know?” I would ask.

“Everything,” she would say.

“Hmm,” I would say, and look at her with narrowed eyes, and we would laugh.  It was funny because she really didn’t want to know everything.  That was a main conflict of our relationship–what to share, what to keep secret.

But sometimes she would just sing the line from this song.  “Tell me something good!”  I didn’t really know the song, or the feeling of the song.  But now I know.

time

Sexy mama is done living on earth as a person.  Her life was too short, but her brilliance shines on, through me.

I have time to hear the songs she liked, look at photos, learn about where she was born, and consider her with a more relaxed attitude.

Mama is done, now–I don’t need to worry about her well-being, anymore.  I can see her as the person I am now, without her.  I like learning, and I miss her.