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Perfect for this world
Scarlett O'Hara taught my mother to make a velvet dress out of the living room curtains. And my mother, before she died, taught me that I must win at all costs.
By Avital Gad Cykman
[05/11/00]

ILOVEYOUTOO!
Let's take a moment to appreciate the brutal sexual politics of the love virus.
By Jonathan Poletti
[05/10/00]

My four favorite photos of my mother
Her true selves are revealed, as real as uncut gems.
By Amy Bloom
[05/10/00]

My mother the nun
It's true she was a bride of Christ -- just don't ask for details of the marriage.
By Theresa Rusho
[05/10/00]

Summer of the monkey-boys
A hot summer day, a carload of teenage boys and a dangerous driving mistake reveal a mom's capacity to pardon boyhood transgressions.
By Colin Harrison
[05/09/00]

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Long ago, love made me a beggar, grateful for a glimpse, a touch, the hem of your dress brushing past. Because I've missed you all my life, your death feels, perhaps, less awful than another mother's might to another daughter. I tell myself it does. After all, I'm used to my longing.

Also Today Perfect for this world Scarlett O'Hara taught my mother to make a velvet dress out of the living room curtains. And my mother, before she died, taught me that I must win at all costs. By Avital Gad Cykman The series An introduction to this week's series By Jennifer Foote Sweeney Beyond Hearts and Flowers We devote a week to Mother's Day and the messages that don't fit on the cards.

When he was small, our son -- your grandson -- used to confuse the word "love" with the word "miss." At bedtime, he would take my face in his hands. "I miss you!" he'd say, his voice ragged with passion.

"But I'm right here," I'd answer. "I'm right here with you." I couldn't correct him. Hadn't he, after all, gotten it right?

When you died, this is what I said to myself: It's over. At 24, I was young enough to imagine that death would mark the end of our relationship. I'd looked forward to your dying; it seemed the one thing that might release us both -- you from cancer, me from a vigil that began with my birth.

"Hostage," you called me. The word you wanted was "surrogate," but you were in a hurry. We were driving through Coldwater Canyon, about to arrive at the end of the conversation. I was 12 and you were trying once again to explain how things were the way they were. What had happened was this: You'd given me to your mother; I was the price of your freedom. But at 18 you didn't know what a baby was worth, didn't know that you'd just rearranged the terms of your own captivity.

Hostage. I said the word silently to myself until the syllables collapsed into nonsense.

After your death, when I didn't know what a mother was worth, I determined that you would remain the only one to have brought me to my knees, to have made me beg. Not in front of you, never in front of you -- I had my pride -- but you knew that every star wished on, every prayer whispered, every candle lighted, was yours. A ransom's worth.

After your death, I tried to imagine what the circumstances might be that could tempt me back into a posture of supplication. As it has turned out, I bow my head eagerly. Each night, by my son's bed, knees mortified by Legos, elbows planted among stuffed animals, I'm being rehabilitated. Your grandson no longer mistakes miss for love. And as for your daughter, she is making progress.
salon.com | May 11, 2000

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