My Mother...

My mother was an island.  She would try to shield me from the worst of her depressions by wrapping me in a thick gray blanket.  We needed a doorbell as loud as a foghorn for me to hear mailman ringing. 

It was a sandy beginning to be sure.  But the trellis made up for it with regular supports and places to play.  There were windows within reach; there was space between the blinds to peak inside at the people. 

I’m a thorny person.  My mother was never angry if I hurt her; she felt that our exchange was source of essential nutrients.  She fed me chocolate ice cream that was dirt dark and gritty. 

She woke me with warmth.  My mother’s salty breath was stronger than a cup of Starbucks coffee.  After a long morning of working, I could nestle into her softness for my late afternoon nap.

…

My mother was a neurobiologist.  She taught because education is an experiment in changing the minds of students.  A summer in her laboratory changed me.  She offered a course on mental health and the brain one semester and organized a working group the next.  My college friends came from her laboratory: the therapist with the writing group, the web-mistress of Serendip, the director of gender and sexuality studies at Bryn Mawr College, and a psychoanalyst.  Ultimately, she wanted to know why human beings behave the way they do.  She thought that a scientific study of the brain would teach her.  In her room surrounded by bookshelves so high I had to stand on my desk to reach the top shelves, I was happy.  I became an obese Anobium punctatum.  So, she brought me a stuffed animal bookworm to reside on my desk.  Kept under a chair, were a blanket and pillow.  After a full day of classes, I laid down under the corner desk in her laboratory and slept until my mind cleared. …

I am a rose and a biologist and something else beside. 

My mother is fifteen hundred miles and a ferry ride away; my mother is dead; tertia non datur. 

Tell me a story about your mother,please?