Sentimental Seagull

I was tucking Regan in the other night when I noticed this picture she has on her nightstand.  It's a photo of me finishing my first big race, the Atlanta Half Marathon in 2000 - one of those perfunctory shots the photographer takes as you cross the finish line. Regan has had this picture in her room for at least five years now and it struck me that I never had any pictures of Mom when I was growing up.  Actually, I don't think Mom ever existed in any photos, except for the ones where she was carefully userhing in a brightly lit birthday cake to the happily awaiting child sitting at the dining room table.  Mom was usually in the kitchen or behind the camera, so she didn't show up in all that many candid shots.

Although I don't have a picture of Mom finishing a big race (for those of you who know my mom, how funny would that be), I do have a copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull - a novel by Richard Bach which my dad gave to Mom for Valentine's Day a long, long time ago.  It used to sit on Mom's nightstand and I must have been about 9 or 10 when I picked it up and was captivated by the photos in the book.  I used to love nosing about Mom's bedroom in the late afternoons when she was busy with all the hub-bub created by my younger siblings.  I would sit on her bed, file my nails with her old metal file, munch on some Pepto Bismol chews that she had stashed in her nightstand drawer, and look at the pictures in Jonathan Livingston Seagull.  I really cherished the quiet moments of feeling like I was the grown up in the house . . .

I don't think I really captured the meaning of the story of Jonathan Livingston until I was well into high school, but I would pick up this book every now and then, peruse its pages and find some sort of peace.  I never asked permission to borrow the book - I just took it. And it has been on my nightstand ever since.  It has traveled with me to college, my first apartment in Chicago, and every home I've ever had since.  It bears the sloppy yet beautiful inscription my father wrote to my mother on that Valentine's Day so many years ago, and right now, it is mine.  It's my little piece of Mom, and Dad, sitting with me every day and ready to comfort me when I need it.  It's my little piece of the childhood I loved, sitting with me every day and ready to comfort me.  It's my little piece of Mom, and her beautiful way of living, sitting with me every day and ready to comfort me.

I wonder how long Regan will keep my photo on her nightstand.  I wonder if she'll dig through my nightstand, and sit on my bed, and file her nails with my emery board.  I wonder what impact I will have on my kids, what memories I will leave with them.  I wonder.