How My Mom Loved A Freak Like Me
I put my hand inside my blazer pocket, and the trinket suddenly felt like a hundred pounds. I used all my strength and lifted it up, and out of my pocket. I was cleaning out mom’s stuff and between the ten pairs of unopened socks, empty margarine containers I found this silver charm necklace. When I sat down and opened it there was a picture of me inside, and it wasn’t current. It was when I was a teenager in the 1980s and resembled the lead singer from Twisted Sister. I had my long, bleached blonde hair, black eyeliner and angry look. When I first saw the picture, I broke down and cried. Not because of my obvious fashion mistakes. I cried because my mom kept this picture, warts, and all in a charm necklace. She was never embarrassed of me. No matter how freakishly bad I looked. It’s something nobody else could ever give me—all forgiving love. And now she was gone. My own birth mother had thought I walked funny and wasn’t masculine enough. Here was this woman who adopted me. She wasn’t the richest, smartest or most sane person in the world, but she loved me with all her heart. Every Mother’s Day I take a moment and pause. After all these years I still miss my mother.
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