reflections

Whenever my mother picks up her phone and sees me on the caller ID, she knows my mood in a millisecond by feeling my energy, without me speaking.  No matter if I’ve lost my cool with her (or anyone else) for the entirety of the conversation by regressing to my adolescent years—blaming her, everyone and everything—for my pain or sorrow, my mother, Jennifer Rose Nelson Dawes (aka Mama Dawes), ends every call with how much she loves me and how proud of me she is. At this point, it’s hard to let this sentiment land with me, especially when I may not be proud of my actions. Even after all the years of therapy and hours of meditation, my more volatile emotions often get the best of me when speaking to my mother. Yet, she remains steadfast in her fierce, unconditional love.

One of the most cherished times of my life was when Nicholas and I lived in Durham, North Carolina. Our cozy home was tucked beneath a canopy of trees, with a quiet, rustic charm that held us close. After long days at work, we’d settle into the living room—me stretched out on the couch in my house clothes, a soft T-shirt and shorts; Nicholas in his bathrobe, resting in his recliner. Our dog Teddy lay at his feet, and our cat Diamond curled in his lap. He somehow looked both smothered and deeply comforted…”