I feel like my mother more than ever as I sit at the kitchen table, books and folios spread out around me everywhere, calculator at my side. She had notebooks for recording and I have spreadsheets. Not much else has changed. The tennis is on tv, the night is hot despite the lightness of a cotton nightie next to my skin. I remember her this way too. I remember the night’s she would spend entering, reconciling the business accounts.

The tick tick of a slightly wobbly fan would keep us company, her and I. Me doing last minute homework, kicking the heel of my foot against the leg of the dining room chair, her clicking her pen or tapping the eraser end of the pencil. Come end of month the calculator would whir as her fingers tapped in the numbers at what seemed like light speed, the paper {do you remember those fancy ones with the paper rolls?} tumbling on the floor in a puddle of entered numbers. I would watch her and even as a teenager I could remember thinking she had it all.

My mother is the sort of woman I always wanted to be. A mother, a wife, a business owner, an investor and active community member. She gave people her heart and loyalty and they gave her theirs in return. She derived energy from people, constantly full of stories and chatter but she never took energy from them. My Mum and people are like solar power and the sun, a perfect combination. It’s probably my favourite thing about her. I admired her courage, but that’s the part I liked best.

I’m like my mother in a lot of ways. In others, we are nothing alike. She likes to tell people I’m the mother and she’s the child because of the way I boss her around. I tell people, I’m her assistant, it’s my job. Sitting here tonight, tapping away, the heat of the day finally starting to fade, I think of her and smile. She’s a good woman my mother. I’m proud to be even a little bit like her. I think she would be happy with that.

Are you like your mother? Is that a good thing? 

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