Curriculum Vitae
written by: Valli Henry-Boldini
Curriculum vitae (n.)
“brief account of one’s life and work,” 1902, Latin, literally “course of one’s life”
Unknown (Adj.)
My mother didn’t know at three years old that she had recently become an orphan. She didn’t know either that colour mattered. She did however remember her mother’s angelic voice singing hymns to her every day until it suddenly stopped.
It was a shock to the other children that their mother, father and the two eldest offspring had passed over to another very different dimension; maybe if the architect of life had offered her an alternative plan, my mother might have picked a different design.
Her ten surviving siblings didn’t have a clue as to what would become of their lives from there on; except for the eldest boy who became the father figure; a trainee nineteen-year-old police cadet, hoping like his father to make the status of undercover detective. Then the eldest girl, at only seventeen, left school to become the mother figure. My own mother only knew that she missed those who were farmed out to relatives or married off by said relatives to begin very different and not always happy lives.
***
Her favourite chair is still by the large bay window facing her prized heather and rose front garden, alongside a sprinkling of blooming and colourful flower cuttings collected over the years.
She greets me with her beautiful tawny brown eyes and smiles from the colour photo on the fireplace. The black mole under her right nostril seems more prominent today.
“Touch the ‘magic’ mole and make a wish,” were words she often told us as children. And we did.
A plethora of religious, teaching, gardening, psychology, classic, cookery, and Coelho books, in that order, bulge from the cupboards and shelves in every room. The upright piano full of dusty ornaments and unopened charity post hasn’t made a sound in years. Recent piles of a lifetime of memories sit patiently waiting in every room; all meticulously ticked off the four-column list laying on her prayer table: donate, upcycle, bin, sell, in that order. Her black rimmed reading glasses rest on an open crossword puzzle book with question marks by scribbled words to the side of the pages. Maybe they were a poignant reflection of her life.
Acceptance (n.)
She met my father on her way home from school. At only nineteen years old, her gift for teaching her few dolls had become a reality. He followed her on many occasions and would not give up until she married him. His family were shocked; after all, although she was highly educated (10+ points), she wasn’t quite the right colour for their tastes (0) points.
His mother and sister emigrated to England during the emerging political unrest in her country; the only English speaking one in South America. She had no choice but to accept his decision to follow suit not long after.
“I’ll make a better life for us and our girls. Wait for me,” he said. And she did.
Their front porch seemed desolate as she sat and listened devotedly every evening to their song ‘Unchained Melody’. She read his few dog-eared letters many times over as she waited with staunch undying faith for two years.
***
As you walk through her front door, there’s a large picture of the sacred heart on the left which she had hung there many years before. A few or maybe too many other religious relics and pictures with holy eyes scrutinise you from all directions. When we moved in, the local Catholic priest had blessed the house and that sacred heart picture. She had touched His sacred heart and her devoted one every morning and again every evening before taking the stair-lift up to bed.
The signatures below the picture of those blessed have now faded as did the realisation that ‘no’ was also often an answer to her prayers. I too touch His sacred heart as I leave for the long journey home.
***
Her handcrafted pure gold wedding ring sits in a box in my safe in my adoptive country; the map of which resembles a high heeled boot jutting out into the Mediterranean Sea. On one occasion she gave it to me when it no longer fit and had caused her finger to swell. It was a token of love to her firstborn, though it had never fit me either.
Her numerous visits were always happy. “Come live with me mamma,” I asked many times. “I can’t leave the grandchildren. Come visit me often,” she would always reply. And I did.
Thinking about the ring again with its uneven holes carved in the design, I wonder if she ever thought they were an omen of missed opportunities throughout her life? It’s now too late to ask.
Reality (n.)
True, my father kept his promise. The tickets arrived which she clutched tightly as she boarded the plane; her snivelling youngest in her arms and me, the eldest, hanging onto her dress hem close behind. The stressful journey and long-awaited arrival ended in a grey and cold welcome; so different from the sunshine and family we had left behind in our beautiful homeland.
She cried when she saw him waiting there.
She cried again when he told her about his son with someone else.
He didn’t ask for forgiveness but she forgave him anyway.
At twenty-nine years old she was numb when one cold May morning he moved on out to another dimension; a bad reaction to a doctor’s prescription they said. No-one was to blame they insisted. He left her nothing, zilch, nada – except a 1960s London that had long rejected her colour.
We didn’t ask why we had to move into one small rented room. We didn’t ask why she was never hungry and only sipped black coffee or tea as she fed us. We didn’t ask why no-one ever came to visit anymore. No friends. No grandmother. No Aunt. In that order.
***
The deserved prized position of Head teacher was a joyous reality she cherished for many years. Many thanked her for her devotion. Many called her their second mom. Many appreciated the meaning of her name: showing sincere interest, belief and intense conviction. Many just loved her for who she was.
Her sadness grew when white thinning hair, loose dentures, arthritis, diabetes, loneliness and frailty invaded the very essence of her being. I was there when she survived the angioplasty. She could no longer walk without her frame. She could no longer shower by herself. She could no longer cook all those traditional delicacies enjoyed by so many over the years. A sad long list in no particular order.
Her youngest said “Ms Perfect will never come back to do it, so I suppose I’ll have to care for her.” The three grandchildren said “That’s only fair. She’s dedicated her entire life to us all for so many years.” And so, her youngest did but not in the way my mother deserved and at an unimaginable cost to such a frail beautiful soul.
However, the eldest grandchild, a neo-deputy head teacher, often took her out and paid weekly visits with her neo-sports teacher husband. My mother turned even closer to the church and found real comfort with her staunch undying faith.
***
At eighty-five years old, laying on her back with eyes permanently closed, she had waited for me to arrive but could not verbally say goodbye. The doctors said that the morphine-combo infusion syringe driver and oxygen mask would help with the pain and pneumonia in her struggling lungs slowly filling up with liquid.
I cradle her left hand gently in mine, her other clutching immovably to her blue beaded rosary. I’m the sole witness to her last breath in that cold hospital bed. Her worn out heart gave up on her shortly after. She could no longer be defined by the colour slowly draining from her weary face. Copious emotions escape down my cheeks as I kiss her forehead and thank her profoundly.
***
She leaves behind an immense void that can never be filled. She leaves behind the unexpected reality of her death to others to grieve and maybe even finally appreciate, with undying gratitude, the many sacrifices made and the true value of a long and commendable Curriculum Vitae.
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