I can smell the biscuits baking she stirred up while humming a hymn; the cloud of hairspray while she uses the hand mirror at the bathroom vanity to fluff the back of her hair to achieve proper volume; the White Shoulders that she wears because Dad loves it; the Clorets she pops into her mouth on the ride to church; the Merle Norman face powder when I kiss her cheek.
I can see her primly and excitedly fold her hands in her lap once she’s gotten all her ducks in a row in the car—sunglasses on her nose just over her beautiful smile; last items retrieved and settled in her giant purse, now at her feet in the floorboard; 45-degree tilt to face her son so we can get our “visit” on.
I can hear her talk about her frustrations through gritted teeth, watch her scratch her head in that one tiny spot that is reserved for her most intense dislikes (never mussing her ‘do, of course), hear the crack in her voice as she starts to cry a little for the things that can’t be solved with the other two...though the tears don’t come as easily as they once did.
I can feel her cool, sweet hand in my giant paw as she kneels beside my bed, asking me about my life, my happiness, my dreams, and asking if she’s done what she needed to do to help me get where I’m going. She uses her other hand to smooth my hair, makin’ sure I look good for the folks I meet in my dreams. She sits there and talks to me softly, sweetly, until I just cannot keep my eyes open any longer and I drift in and out, while she’s still there just…holding.
Donnie Bullard, you are the song in my heart. You are the kindness I show others, the joy in my accomplishments, and the safety I feel in going after my heart’s desires with wild abandon. Thank you for your many precious gifts. PFY