The Other Woman

The dormant woman who slumbers in our soul

Hand-tinted photograph by my mom — The photo is of her posing for a friend in the Icycle River

I can’t say I wanted to grow up to be like Mom.

She was tall and beautiful, and when she entered a room, all eyes followed her graceful carriage. Those traits and a few others, I would have loved to inherit.

I could choose to serve her to you on a silver platter as the best wife, mother, and all-around woman, God ever created.

It would be true.

And —

It would be a lie.

She always said all she ever wanted to be was a mother. Having known her for 48 of her 77 years, I rather doubt that to be true. More likely she adjusted her wants and tamed her dreams to fit where she found herself in this world.

Sound familiar?

What I know of Mom’s childhood and young adult life fascinates me. She is the star in my dream to write a novel someday. I don’t know the most important details so it would be fiction, but she’d serve as the perfect broth for a great story of romance, mystery, and old-school drama.

Although neither Mom nor her mother would say it, I’m taking the liberty to name the grandfather I never met as an alcoholic. The stories both told and presumed are the evidence.