Mom & Me by Lady Dalia

My mom, a good Italian girl, from a Sicilian family, separated from my dad in October 1972. A divorcee of the disco 70's scene.  Radical.

A receptionist who had one little girl about to turn 3 years old in a month.  Me.

Sometimes it is easier to tell a story through music.

I was 5 years old in a full body snow suit, sweating, as we entered a chalet after a morning tobogganing.  Helen Ready, "I am Woman" was playing over the loud speakers.  My mom turned to me and started singing along, smiling, off key.  I laughed and felt bigger than I ever had.

She had that way with her.  She could make me feel so special.

She never told me to do anything.  She asked.  She didn't even scold when I almost passed out from fumes due to mixing the corrosive and toxic chemicals, under the bathroom sink.  Not really.  She did, however, go out and buy me a chemistry set.   She watched me take apart transistor radios and tape recorders, in total calm.  She had faith I could reassemble them.  So I did.

She taught me to be a kinder, gentler person than I naturally was.  She soothed and slowed me down but never held me back.

It would be easy to paint her a saint.  But she was no saint.

In 2001, she was hospitalized due to alcoholic toxicity.  30 years of alcoholism finally taking it's total on her.  You'd think that a story about inspiring women should be perky.  I disagree.  It's the sum of who we are, the struggle that counts.

That April, while in hospital she told me, "You know the song, 'I will remember you?'... The one by Sarah?"  I said yes.  "Well that's my song to you.  It's what I want to leave you with".

"Don't let your life, pass you by.  Weep not for the memories"

And while she lived for another 8 years after that moment, what we developed was a new relationship.  Honest, open and raw.  I was terrified.  She was jealous.  I watched her struggle with her darkness and never did she stop loving.  Not just me but life.  On her own terms.

She left this world August 2009.  In packing her things I found a poem or perhaps prayer.  One of the phrases haunts me to this day.  "I am not perfect.  Accept me as I am please."

Yes mother, I accept you.  I accept what is.  I accept who I am.  I accept it all because you accepted me and so you, gave me room to be.