A Portrait of my Mother
When she was fifty years old, my father left my mother for another woman. It was a good move for my father and he was blessedly happy in his new relationship. My mother has never sought out a new relationship and is happy wallowing in the lonely dregs of her rejection. Fifteen years after my father left her, my mother decided to have a professional photo taken of herself even though she hates having her picture taken. She went to Glamour Shots for a sitting. A place where they fix your hair, do your makeup, and take a variety of photos that make you look glamourous. I was living in a city a safe four hours from my mother and she mailed me a copy of her photo. The background of the photo is a blinding, shocking pink. An unusual choice for a professional portrait, but one that demands attention. After the neon pink grabs for attention, my eyes are drawn to the subject of the portrait. My mother has a hidden beauty that shines through dimly when she is happy and is rarely seen. She never wears makeup and her frugality demands that she go to the cheapest hair dresser available. In her Glamour Shot portrait, she is stunningly attractive. Hair perfectly coiffed, subtle makeup accentuating her sky blue eyes, and a lovely smile. She is wearing a string of pearls I have never seen and a cream coloured bolero jacket that sets off her complexion beautifully. She looks happy. It is a portrait of a mother I have never seen, have never known.
My mother called me to ask if I received her photo. I tell her it is beautiful and I don’t mention how the glare of the neon pink makes me cringe. With a smugness I can feel through the phone, she tells me she sent a copy to my father to show him what he is missing. That is the mother I know.