Among the many things my mother may not realise reminds me of her is the embroidered coat hanger. These hangers, with their delicate lace cloth, are designed to protect. Handmade with personal touches that no global chain would bother with, they are sewn with the same slow, attentive care as a lifetime of maternal love.
Sometimes, when I see a row of them in my closet, I fleetingly imagine a time when she will no longer cushion my life with the consistent warmth I once naively assumed everyone had. As a young adult, I took for granted such Christmas stocking fillers and small surprises of daily thoughtfulness, along with the exceptional nurturing that covered not just wardrobe essentials but all my emotional needs.
My mother grew up in the Sydney suburbs of post-war austerity. Now 88, she has been married to my father for 65 years, helped run businesses, and devoted herself to being a mother and grandmother. I am a gay woman, never married, with no children, my life built around strong friendships, siblings, journalism, and global travel. She delights in pretty dresses and homegrown roses; I love black pants and despise rules. She goes to bed early; I stay up late.
Despite these differences, our bond is such that we can read each other instantly without words. I have inherited from her a penchant for asking questions, a wonder for the world, and a sensitivity from too much empathy. When I came out, after her initial loving acceptance, she wrote to me: 'I truly believe that it’s the strongest people in life who are given the biggest challenges.'
A friend and I discussed funerals recently, knowing we will one day face what we dread. Why wait until they are gone to tell the world what they mean to us? These women who cradled us in selfless love will always be hanging in the closet of our souls, padded with care, kindness, and strength. We carry on their wisdom.
