In Relation To Motherly Love

A little bit of pink never hurts. My bedroom has been pink since I was a little girl. If I had to guess, my grandmother picked the color out. There’s a comfort in the soft, powder pink that I’ve appreciated ever since. I have sweaters, shoes, backpacks, and even books that I chose simply because the cover was the perfect shade of pink. It was no surprise that when my grandparents and I moved out to our farmhouse five years ago that I wanted my new room to be the same shade as my childhood bedroom. My grandpa rolled his eyes at my request, but still did his best to match the color exactly to the old one. It was the only room in the house that wasn’t repainted white. 

As a gift for all her grandchildren, my grandmother knitted blankets for my cousins and siblings. She bought skeins of yarn in everyone’s favorite colors and I’d watch her work on them for months on end. Grandma apologized a few times for making me wait so long for mine, but I joked with her that she saved her favorite for last. I don’t think Grandma has favorites, but she didn’t disagree. It was Christmas time last year when I finally received my blanket. It was easy to pick the color. I asked for a light pink, the same color of my bedroom that sits on the floor above her room. I smiled when I placed it at the end of my bed when I returned to school a few weeks later. 

It made the most sense for me to move in with my grandparents when I returned from living in Washington with my aunt. I had lived with them before my move and I lived with them my entire childhood. My grandparents encouraged me to return to my old bedroom. I think they didn’t like being empty nesters. Routine unraveled itself over the summer: my grandma would sit on her couch, our dog Gizmo seated beside her, and she’d knit the blankets for my cousins while I sat in the chair opposite of her. We’d laugh along to our marathon of Anne of Green Gables or Derry Girls and Grandpa would occasionally pop in from working on his latest farm project. Then at night I’d walk up the stairs to my pink bedroom and rest my head on the white, metal-framed bed my Grandpa hauled up the stairs for me. Sleep comes easily as the safety of their home and my pink bedroom keeps worry away. 

My mom’s clothing is exclusively black sweaters and shirts. Hardly any colors pop out in her closet. Her favorite color is black, which shocked my Kindergarten teacher when I handmade a Mother’s Day card in class. What Mrs. Standish thought was ruining the “MOM” greeting card she gave us to color either pink or purple, I knew my all-black card was exactly what my mom wanted. The side of my hands were still stained from the marker when I handed my mom the card that evening at dinner. She said she loved it. 

As I got older, my mom always advocated for black clothing in our closets. A black cardigan can go with any pair of jeans and it’s a slimming color. I also discovered black clothing doesn’t stand out. Something my mom avoided. No bright pink sweaters like the ones in my closet or patterned skirts to wear on nights out. It was a daunting realization that my mom would always choose to be in the background, not a forefront character. Sometimes I dream about the pieces of herself that my mom gave up when she became my mother. She was twenty-two when I was born and then had my sister a year later. At twenty-four I can’t imagine balancing my life along with two toddlers. What were her dreams at twenty-one, those weeks before she met my father? What were the plans she kept mapped out in her head but let stay hidden because they never made it past her imagination? 

Living in Dublin, I’m grateful that I packed a pair of black boots with me. As the rain became a more constant part of my day-to-day life, I stepped right into city living (which meant black boots that didn’t soak up rain water). Mine were from Target, and I hardly wore them back home. But now they were the shoes I trekked to class in or dressed up for a night out at Workmen’s. I wore them to the seams, and knew they wouldn’t last the rest of the semester. For a pair of shoes I hardly wore at home, I couldn’t find myself to part with them until I knew I had a replacement. Because black boots go with everything, like the black skirt and black sweater I bought. And they’re sturdy in the rain and better ones can withstand midwestern snow. If I invested in a higher quality of boot, I’d have those shoes for a long time. Possibly to the days when I share advice and secrets to my daughter. I’ve still got years before then, and time to grow into the person my mother didn’t have the time to become herself. For now, I’ll bookmark more of her advice.  

Gabrielle Crone