Mothers May

May 10

*Mom.*

*Reflection written by Ella Davilla*

I was six or seven. She handed me a grey and yellow Walkman and a pair of headphones.

Without hesitation, I asked for the keys to unlock her red Sundance sedan and dug through the center console. I grabbed two cassette tapes—a white cassette tape and a clear cassette tape.

I pushed play on the white tape—Marvin Gaye started singing. The music flooded my ears, and I found myself outside, dancing on the hill in the backyard of our house. I could feel her watching me from the kitchen window with curiosity, but I didn't care. I moved my body for the first time with intentional rhythm, learning to move my feet and hips. I remember the sun on my face, and with my eyes closed, I let the cassette play and danced back and forth for hours to the easy beats of “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved by You),” then “I Heard It Through the Grapevine,” all the way to the end of Side A of the tape. The lyrics didn't matter—and she knew this. Maybe she just wanted me to move. Maybe she knew I needed the music. Maybe she knew I would use the music to regulate my body. Maybe she just knew me, and what made me happy.

She was my mom. And she was right.

May is a month of birthdays for my family, and it's a month for Mom. My birthday came first, then my brother's birthday, and then my mom's birthday, and finally, Mother's Day. It all came in those first two weeks. We were so aware of each other during this time—making sure we connected on some level and acknowledged each other's role in our lives, never ignored and always celebrated. Every year May approaches, and I can't help but think of her, what being a mother meant to her, and reflect on what it means to me now.

My mom passed away two years ago—suddenly and tragically. I don't speak of it too much. I think it's my way of keeping her memory from fading too quickly, because the more I talk about ‘Mom,’ the quicker the memories come—and I want to keep those memories close and safe. Being a mom was her greatest gift. She was just that—a gift, and a lot of the time, a gift I didn't ask for. But the more I experience motherhood, the more I experience the love and obligation that comes with this gift.

I look back with wonder and admiration of her strength and resilience. I also look back with gentle discernment—and, dare I say, judgment. What made her her? And I ask myself if my own children ask themselves the same question: What makes me the mother I am today? What made me the mother I was—and more importantly, what will make me the mother I will be?

How many more opportunities will I be given to do it better, to make the wrongs right, and to create an impression so lasting it leaves a mark? What am I handing over? What is the mark of a mother?

For me, the word “Mom” is the mark of life. She gave me life. And I gave life. And we—mothers—give life. We give it through birth, through music, through words, through recipes, through play, through actions and non-actions, through voice, through mistakes, through triumphs, through pretending, through raw truths and intentional lies, through love, and even through war.

Marvin Gaye said it perfectly... “How sweet it is to be loved by you”... (Mom).

To all the moms (in any capacity) reading this—own your mark. You are both the watching mother and the dancing child.

What happens when the play button is pushed and your music plays?

What song will our children hear?

What can we hand over—and hand down?

Who is “Mom”?

—Written by Ella Davilla