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I cherish a photograph of my mother carrying her first grandchild, my daughter. She is dressed in white and looks like a ghostly bride, a virginal Belle of Hartford. Carrying my two-year-old girl, she radiates a classic gorgeousness. Her hair is still mostly black and pulled back in the same chignon that always signaled to me she was happy for the moment.
Then there is the glossy black and white photo that I worshipped when I was a little girlβin it my teenaged mother seems to be gazing at something far away. My mother was looking for sunlight. Now she incubates under the fluorescent lights of her nursing home. Every time I see her, she is in the midst of another metamorphosisβone that continuously forms her into an old woman I barely recognize.
Her voice, which had the pellucid quality of a broadcaster, is thick with mucus, studded with gravel. She tells me that I should have taken care not to let my hair go gray, go old.
My mother was sorrowfully named for an aunt who died in childbirth. My mother was back in school, and she pounded the keyboard as if she were trying to liberate enough energy to set fire to our three-bedroom colonial that sat on a corner lot. The anxious clickety clack of her industriousness set us on edge. She brought saw-tooth ferocity to her work.
In that first year of study, my mother was assigned to read Don Quijote de la Mancha. And so that time belonged exclusively to Don Quijote. This was a triumph of literary verisimilitude. Yet there was so much gullibility to go around as my mother studied and memorized. For years the name Cide Hamete Benengeli rolled off our tongues as if we were on to something. But Cervantes tricked us. Who wants to be a sidekick? A wild half-thought: This was , the year my mother was Dulcinea the beauty to my strong, steadfast Don Quijote.