For Mami

By Kaitlyn Byer

moth·er

noun

• a woman in relation to her child or children.

verb

• bring up (a child) with care and affection.

For Mami: 

I always loved your light bronze skin with hints of olive. I remembered it being soft as snow, as if the concept of aging simply never applied to you. Your hands—cold and dry—cradled mine in special motherly warmth, a shield protecting my shards of innocence. They were so big I could easily fit maybe three of mine inside. Squishy tree roots connected your knuckles to your wrist bulging as if attempting to break free. You were taller than a skyscraper, which even then downsizes your sheer height when I peered up at your tranquil face and deep brown eyes. You held me close to your side, so close I could smell the Tide laundry detergent with a hint of Florida, and a strong overwhelming scent of Mami. 

Laying against your stomach I could hear all the rumbles and rustles of whatever was churning and bubbling. I always thought your tummy was angry at me when I’d lay on it, so I tried to lift the weight of my head to make it feel better. You never really did like it when I told you how much I loved your soft and squishy belly. It was perfectly round and unblemished, like a half-inflated flimsy balloon. It was more than a pillow, but a place specially designed for a tiny body to lay on while you sang your sweet and perfect little lullabies to shelter my sweet and perfect little childhood. To me, you were always perfect.

I was too young to notice your struggles, your faults. Slowly I became aware of someone who was not perfect. She had dreams she could not achieve, goals she never reached. Only later, when my height reached above hers, and her feelings were no longer private but a gushing fountain of her life spilling into my old and experienced heart. I learned of her family struggles, her childhood, I absorbed her wisdom like shards of diamond raining upon the skin of a newborn. 

Truly and purely selfless, she gives up everything to a fault, simply for the sake of her family. She had to give up her opera career to have children. Trading her performance life for one of a voice teacher, she had to commute over an hour to meet her students. Yet still, with her weak yet sufficient piano skills and complex vocal knowledge, to me she was the best voice teacher in the entire world. She still is, or rather, she would be if she continued teaching after our cross-country move to California. Even now her voice is beautiful as if God himself revoked it from Eve at the Fall of Man and gifted it to my own mother. 

And her face, my God is it beautiful. Cheekbones rise to accentuate a long, low jawline and full lips the color of dark pastels. I knew she always regretted spending hours under the sun in her youth but those freckles line her face with a childlike glow. She doesn’t believe in her beauty, or perhaps a form of extreme modesty. She must believe at some point though, as every time she asks 

“How did you become so beautiful?”

I say every time “It’s all genetics Mami, I’m beautiful because you’re beautiful.” Then she’ll say, “No you’re a special beautiful, you’re so uniquely you and I love it.”

I hoped she’d be like that forever. 

I never noticed the silver highlights lining the strands of your dark brown hair until they infected their neighbors with their colorless beauty. It’s scary to see the fold begin to appear around the previously youthful linings of your face, the fine lines between old and young. 

I want to spend my life with you the way I did when I simply leaned my head against your hips and reached high in the air to hold your hand. I’m scared of letting go of the childhood you gave me, to grow out of the training wheels you never removed. If only I’d cease to think about how much I miss the time we spent together, the time you raised me with all the affection a mother could ever give. I forgive you Mami, it was hard back then. We’re here now, in California. I forgive you. 

I can’t imagine a life to be lived without my dear mother: the one who gifted me life.

Kaitlyn Byer is a teen writer who aspires to be published one day. She is 16 years old and attends Orange County School of the Arts in Orange County California as a member of the Creative Writing Conservatory. Some of her favorite activities include playing golf and participating and STEM-related extracurriculars such as Science Olympiad. She loves to specialize in writing creative nonfiction works that relate to her own life, as memories are her greatest inspiration. She hopes to allow others to experience the real and raw feelings that she draws from when creating her pieces.