A Lighthouse with Fluffy White Beams

My mother possessed a number of distinguishing characteristics that remained in my memory even when I was a very little child. The most noticeable of these was the fact that she always reeked of Winston Light One Hundreds cigarettes, which was her preferred brand at the time. I despise cigarette smoke, but I find the fragrance of a freshly lit Winston to be calming in a strange way since it reminds me of my mother and how the home always smelt. She was a devoted smoker who could rarely be found without her cigarette case in hand. After many years of smoking, my mother had an extremely distinctive voice and cough that I could recognize in a crowd. The closest way I can describe them is as raspy and crackling, but it was always joy to my ears no matter how she came over. Another way I could quickly distinguish Mom from a crowd was by her short, curly white hair, which was short and curly. Even though she was never a particularly tall lady, if we were out in public and I happened to lose sight of her, I would always search for the puff of white hair that stood out in a crowd, like a patch of snow on a green field or a strange fluffy white lighthouse of some sort.

My mother had struggled with depression for many years, and the effects of her illness were extremely visible on her face at the time. Throughout my childhood, there has never been a point in which I would have described my mother as "young." Her face had the lines and features of a much older woman, despite her young age. Having been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and subsequently deadly lung cancer, these characteristics were accentuated later in life. During the six years of therapy for these ailments, my mother's appearance took a horrible toll, but there were two changes in particular that I was particularly concerned about. Her multiple sclerosis advanced to the point that she was unable to find the words she needed to express herself when she talked. She would frequently stutter and become really frustrated because she couldn't find the words she was seeking for when speaking. The chemotherapy caused her to lose her hair, which was the second change she experienced. Her fluffy white hair, which served as my "beacon in the crowd," was replaced by beanies and berets made by hand. In the year leading up to her death, she shed the majority of the weight that had remained on her frame, and she began to resemble what one would expect from a cancer patient nearing the end of her life: Her eyes were sunken and dark, and she had prominent check bones. She had little to no mobility, and she had almost completely lost her ability to speak, whether because of a physical limitation or because she had been defeated by what she called "those fucking tumors."

We lay my mum to rest in the family cemetery on Mother's Day 2007, which was also her birthday. Every time I smell a Winston or see a white-haired old lady in a crowd, the twenty-seven years I had the opportunity to spend with my mother will remain etched in my memory for the rest of my life.