Bound by Books, Built by Her

Love, Loss, and Literature

Photo of the author and her mother

When I think of my mother, I cannot help but think of so many things at once. The first thing I think of is her beautiful dark eyes. I used to wish I had inherited my paternal grandmother’s green eyes, but the older I got the more I appreciate having my mother’s hypnotic ones. The second thing I think of is her beautiful hands. I used to stare at her hands for hours as a child. Even now, I catch myself staring at her hands. The third thing is that gorgeous skin of hers. I wanted so badly to be as brown as she is. But, when I get past all that, I think of how complicated my relationship with her is.

My mother is one of the great loves of my life. I credit a lot of the woman I am to her: the good and the bad. My mother’s life has been a long, difficult one. One that made it hard to be the parent her four kids needed, but I do not want to focus on the trauma, not today at least. Today, I would like to share with you not a single great memory of my mother but something a bit more complex. When I think of the childhood my mother gave me, I think of the arts. My earliest memories involve me staring at a very big bookcase.

Before her stroke, my mother always had a book in her hand. I would stand on my tippy-toes to reach for that very same book on the bookshelf after she was done. Many of those books she…