The Award

An award for my novel.

My second novel,

my first award.

Days preparing a talk,

imagining the moment,

the distant city,

the auditorium filled with strangers.

A quiet joy, buzzing beneath my skin.

Then my mother called.

“My friend Fern and I are driving up

for your ceremony,” she announced.

I stumbled through my response.

The truth?

Her presence seemed meant

to gather my small glory

for her own display.

But who can tell her mother

she’s not welcome

at a public ceremony?

Later, I confessed my feelings

to my own eleven-year-old daughter.

“Maybe you’ll feel the same one day,”

 I said, suddenly shy at our reversal of roles.

“When something wonderful is happening to you,

perhaps you won’t want me there.”

“Oh, Mom,” she said, gently wise

and utterly sure,

“you’re

you

and

Grandma

is

Grandma.”

I could only sigh …

and hope.

The day came,

And I didn’t see my mother

while I was signing books,

or smiling at strangers,

nor in the audience

when I spoke.

But when all was done

and the auditorium, empty,

I spotted her,

sitting off

to one side

alone.

(Fern having gone to the restroom.)

I carried myself to my mother

as I might have carried

a piece of crystal,

then stood before her waiting,

without quite knowing

what I waited for.

Not for “Congratulations!” certainly.

Not even for “That was a nice talk.”

(My mother’s mother was the daughter

of an English Baptist minister.

Nothing worse you could do

than to make your children proud.)

When Mother did speak, though,

she didn’t even say,

“How nice to see you,”

although we didn’t live near

and hadn’t seen one another for months.

She said, simply,

“Fern thinks you wear the same size I do,

so I guess she doesn’t think

you’re

very

thin.”

All the way home,

I held my daughter’s wisdom close.

Oh, Mom! 

You’re

you

and

Grandma

is

Grandma.

She was my mother,

and her love had formed me.

Yet I wanted with all my heart

not to be

her.