multiplication

My mother had two daughters. They were as different as could be. One with dark curly hair, the other a blue-eyed blonde. One they teasingly called "chatty" and the other who they admonished not to be so emotional. One who grew to become a stark realist, who thought and spoke in detail and with authority, who knew the names of each of the of the flowers in the yard and all the muscles of the body but used too few of them. The other who lived in dreams and generalities, who moved restlessly from place to place, activity to activity, who looked at color and texture, who never "got" math or even considered it necessay. Each one took a bit of their mother for her own, and though they both prayed, "Don't let me be like like Mom." they were. Just in different ways.

As the years passed they played together, fought bitterly, defended each other from attack, and used each other as sounding boards because the level of understnding between them was as good as it gets. Sometimes they became allies of convenience, but more often they fell into resentment and critcism, always asking themselves who was loved more. A sisterly love.

My mother would alternately take up the defense of one, then the other when the spats and complaints began. She saw them both with love and honesty, with hope and anxiety. She fought to defend them, from themselves and each other. But sometimes, I suspect, she just wanted to shake them off, like an annoying burr caught on her heal. Honestly, it takes so much effort to heal all the hurts and misunderstandings.

Each of these daughters eventually left home and had two daughters. Where there had been two daughters there were now four... or six... however the multiplication works out. And each of these girls was unique. It was a mystery to all that they came from the same pool of genes. And still the mother's of these girls placed their own imprint on them. Each of the girls getting a bit from her mother, which was part of the grandmother... the curls, the emotions, the laugh moving just so on the breeze.

And the mothers of these girls, like their mother before them, ran interference when necessary, wrung their hands in silent desperation at others, and loved them, loved them, loved them.

These four girls are moving... out and away... and maybe each of them will be mothers someday. Multiplying.

Who can say?