An Encyclopedia of My Mother
By Amy Flyntz
Arthritis – 2018
My mother’s hands have raised three daughters, coddled a granddaughter and two grandsons, buried 6 hamsters—or was it 7?— and 4 guinea pigs, planted bulbs that sprout the hopeful yellow messengers of spring. Happy flowers, she calls them. Her hands are warm and dry to the touch, still so ready to reach out and gather her loved ones near. Burls where her knuckles used to lie even and flat; fingers that curve so severely they appear to be locked in spasm. Sometimes, the ache thrums below her skin and I catch her massaging her hands, the arthritis a reminder of all that she inherited from her mother. A harbinger of what I will inherit from mine.
Boots -1980
My hand smoothes the dark brown calf-hair boots from the top down toward the toes. I bet a dog would feel like this if we had one. Sometimes, I like to pet these boots backward—from the toes up—to feel the tickle of bristles on my fingertips. I like the way my fingernails make stripes when I do this, but I always pet them the right way again before I unzip them and pull them on. Before I surprise my mom in the kitchen and she tells me how tall I look. I stomp toward her. She bends down to zipper them up, then holds my hand so I can twirl.
Catholicism -1991
Offer it up, she says, whenever my sisters and I are struggling with something. What does that even mean, Mom? She says, Jesus suffered and offered this suffering to God. As if this explains anything. How will that ease the heartbreak of losing a first love? Or the humiliation of a college rejection letter, or the inescapable torment of an eating disorder? Years later, I read that “offering it up” is called “redemptive suffering”—the idea that somehow suffering will lead to salvation, but it seems to me another cudgel the Catholic Church wields to ensure no one steps out of line. Still, she believes. No matter how many sexual abuse scandals at the hands of priests, no matter how misogynistic or corrupt the “one true Church,” she believes.
Divorce -2009
Our just-married parents step in tandem down the front steps of St. Charles Catholic Church and toward the edge of the photograph. Caught on a gust of wind, my mother’s veil billows up behind them, a cumulous cloud illuminated by the sun. There was never going to be a Catholic wedding for me. Instead of attending Pre-Cana classes and receiving the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony by a priest, we met with our Justice of the Peace over pints of Guinness and recited our vows in a New Haven banquet hall, where Dad played air guitar to Queen and Mom raised her arms to spell out “Y-M-C-A.” Six years later, I become the first person in my family to divorce. My parents help me move out of our house and into a condo with my best friend. They invite me over for dinner, set out gluten-free snacks for me when I stop by unannounced. Here, honey, Mom says, holding out a tote bag weighted with homemade zucchini bread wrapped in tinfoil and neatly folded vegetarian recipes cut from the newspaper. They never tell me I should have tried harder to make it work. Still, nearly a year later: Mom, do you think you can take down our wedding photo? I think maybe it’s time, I say. Oh, she says. Oh. Ok.
Edema -2021
I’m ok, she says, shifting in the cream-colored armchair and grimacing. She reaches across her sunken chest with her right arm to adjust her left, then sighs at the impossible weight of it. While the rest of her bones now form a relief map of her body, her left arm has ballooned to what seems the size of my thigh: severe lymphedema from a buildup of lymphatic fluid no longer able to move to other parts of her. Instead, it pushes outward through her epidermis, weeping from the blisters that now cover her arm and soaking the oversized rectangles of gauze held in place by Saran Wrap to help prevent infection. I wriggle my hand under her swollen forearm, shocked by the heat and weight of it, and maneuver it back onto the towel-covered pillow on her lap. Her fingers scrabble for my hand, too thick with fluid to grasp it. She pats it instead. Thanks, Ame. I kiss her forehead. That’s better, she says.
Fuck -2008
You’ll feel better if you say it, Mom! Just say it, we goad her. I look around the table and see my two older sisters are mirroring my exaggerated expression, noses crinkled and front teeth biting into our bottom lips, as if this will spur her into action. Come on, Mom. Fffffffff…We are certain this will empower her, this word we use frequently that has always caused her to cringe. She shakes her head, laughing. I can’t do it, she says. I hate that word. Years later, after my brother-in-law upends my sister’s life, Mom sits across the kitchen table from me. Her ears flush crimson under her cropped brown hair. She shakes her head. Still, there is no fuck. Suddenly, she says quietly, Dick. Head. And then, crowing: Dickhead!
Giggle -2015
Her giggle erupts high at the back of her throat, and she pinches the tip of her crinkled nose to contain it. Oh, my GOD, she says, shaking her head, finally dropping her hand and letting the laugh burst fully, freely, into the room.
Handwriting -2019
My mother’s recipe box is full to bursting with lined cards now yellowing at the corners: measurements for apple crisp and broccoli casserole carefully transcribed in blue and black ink. Her Auntie Ann’s “sugar & spice” cookies, with a YUM! and hand-drawn smiley face at the bottom. Handwritten notes tacked haphazardly on the refrigerator: quotes she finds meaningful, phone numbers, our latest job titles and responsibilities so she can share them with family and friends who inquire. Checks we receive well into our forties with memos that read, “gas money”—always mailed after we’ve visited our parents at the home where we grew up. Thank you notes on stationery carefully chosen: a photograph of rhinos after my trip to Zambia. Birthday cards. The way she writes my name: the oblong “A” sliding effortlessly into the neat “m” and sturdy “y” with the wide loop at the bottom. The exclamation point at the end of every handwritten “Love you!”
I AM -2023
In the dream, Mom’s handwritten notes appear between the double-spaced typed sentences of the essay I’m writing about her dying. In the hazy, non-linear way of dreams, I wonder, Have I printed this on an old piece of paper with her handwriting on it? Why haven’t I noticed it before? But then I see she’s also written a love note in the left-hand margin, telling me what she likes about the essay. Then: I AM HERE. And at different angles across the page, her script so deeply embedded on the paper it’s nearly carved: I AM. I AM. I AM.
Jewelry –1983
See how each colored stone is carved to look like a beetle? Mom asks. I tell her that’s gross and I hate beetles. I know, she laughs. But this is called a scarab bracelet, and it’s named after scarab beetles. In ancient Egypt, they symbolized life after death. I bought this in Italy when Mary Beth and I went to Europe after we graduated nursing school. She says I can wear it today and helps me put it on, then turns it around on my wrist. It’s too big for me. I hold my wrist up toward the window and watch the beetles brighten in the light: blue, green, pink. Then I promise not to wear it outside, and I hug her for letting me wear her special bracelet.
Kids –2006
My niece Gillian hugs Mom’s neck, then pulls back to send her dark eyebrows shooting skyward, mirroring her grandmother’s silly facial expressions. Mom cups Gillian’s flushed cheeks with the palms of her hands and giggles into her hair. My sister Jennifer made our parents a “Grammy” and “Grampa,” but though I have been married for three years, I feel as far away as ever from wanting children. Another year will go by, then two. At the five year mark, I will begin fielding more urgent questions about “when”—but never from my mother. That’s between you two, she’ll say more than once. Nanny and Grampa never pressured us, and we will never do that to you. Several years after my divorce, she will pour me lemon seltzer in a tall glass as I sit at their kitchen table. She’ll say, It’s good that you know yourself well enough to know you don’t want kids, Amy. She’ll say, I’m proud of you for being honest about it. She’ll tell me she loves me, and I will know this is true.
Love -1993
I still love you, you know, she says, holding my bedroom door ajar enough that I can see one of her eyes and a sliver of her nose and mouth. MOM! I yell. She closes the door softly. I hear her footsteps retreat down the hall toward the kitchen and I reach for my journal again. We have had another fight, and now I’m grounded. Why does she always say she loves me when we fight? I scribble. As if I am going to say it back to her when I’m so fucking pissed. I hit the play button on my boombox and let the mixtape my boyfriend made me fill my ears, pretending my mom doesn’t exist.
Multiple Myeloma -2021
For almost 18 months, our parents exist solely over Zoom, the phone, or in text threads. With Dad’s heart condition, we are terrified of bringing Covid-19 into their house, and vaccines are still not yet available. So we stay away, sharing holiday toasts over flat screens, interrupting each other awkwardly over wifi connections of varying strengths, asking my parents to move the phone just a little to the right so we can see their faces instead of their backlit silhouettes. Then comes Mom’s text, a few days before she is slated to go in for her hip replacement surgery. Can we get on a quick Zoom call, just us girls? Immediately, my two older sisters and I begin speculating: Maybe she’s nervous about the surgery during Covid. Maybe she’s nervous about the recovery and doesn’t want to say anything in front of our partners. One of us sends the Zoom link, all of us dial in. Her face appears, tilted slightly backward, her brown eyes round and shining through her bifocals. There is nervous chitchat, voices at a high register. An awkward silence that stretches out a few beats too long. And then, she begins. Went for pre-op bloodwork and scans, then needed some follow-up tests. Hip replacement surgery is postponed—well, actually, it’s not needed at all. And then: Multiple myeloma. The alliteration rolls off her tongue and into our ears, where it mutes all sound as it seeps into our cellular consciousness. Oh, Mom, we say, finally. Oh, no. We have so many questions but we each try to take turns speaking, the others scribbling handwritten notes so we’re not clacking on our keyboards. Zoom reminds us that we are nearing our 40 minute time limit. Years ago, our grandmother was diagnosed with this same plasma cell cancer. Remember how well Nanny did with her treatment? she asks. Reminding us. Imploring us. Yes, that’s right, she did, Mom. Our voices cut across one another until we fall silent. The Zoom countdown clock appears once more and we take turns telling her we love her, hurriedly saying the same to each other. Time runs out.
Nurse -1989
She sometimes tells time by wearing her watch with the faceplate on her inner wrist, a carry over from decades spent taking blood pressure and recording heart rates. When we were little, she stopped working to stay home with us. Now, she leaves the house in white scrubs and clogs and drives to the local rehabilitation hospital, returning 12 hours later to caution us about diving into swimming pools or riding motorcycles without helmets. Were you working on the traumatic brain injury unit again this week, Mom? But I bet her patients love her soft voice and her smile. I bet she calls them by name and squeezes their hands. When we were young and got sick, she’d unfold a TV stand next to the bed and rest a pewter bell on it. If you need me, just ring! she’d laugh. But she’d appear in the doorway, unbidden. As if she knew before we did that we needed her.
Opium –1998
Mom’s reflection appears in the kitchen window above the sink. She is cleaning up after dinner, and though her back is to me, her facial features are in sharp relief in the glass. Hey, Mom. I wrap my arms around her waist and nuzzle my face into the crook of her neck. Hi, honey, she says, surprised. I breathe in the warmth of the Opium perfume she applied this morning, the heady Oriental notes now softened to powdery florals by the oils of her skin. For years, this perfume has been her signature: Warm, elegant, enveloping. When I borrow her wool scarf, it is this scent I seek to rest my nose against. She holds my arms around her waist and squeezes them, her smile spreading across the windowpane.
Plain Jane -1995
Let me just put on a little lipstick, she smiles, gesturing with her forefinger that she’ll be ready in a minute. My sisters and I laugh. We can’t leave the house without some Ginger Pearl!, we tease her. Lipstick is the only makeup she wears. She’s tried mascara once or twice, but can’t see without her glasses how to apply it. She hates the feel of foundation on her skin. I can’t wear makeup, she says every now and then. I’m just a Plain Jane. We say, Mom, you are not a Plain Jane. You’re a natural beauty. She waves us off with her hand and shakes her head. Years later, when family and friends, neighbors, former co-workers, fellow churchgoers, and even some of our former teachers line up in the funeral home to pay their condolences, they stop at the photo boards we’ve placed around the room; they lean into one another as they watch the silent slideshow that chronicles her life. There is much talk of how beautiful she was. How deeply thoughtful. She lit up every room she walked into, we hear more than once. Across the room from where we stand stitched together in black, the brushed pewter urn that holds what is left of her rises from the wreath of pastel flowers: understated, yet stunning in its simplicity.
Question -2007
Things my mother didn’t question: the simplicity of kindness. The chemical makeup of Cool-Whip. The Catholic Church. Doctors. Having graduated from Notre Dame High School and then from St. Francis School of Nursing as an RN, she was comfortable with the hierarchy of institutions. If someone was in a position of authority, they must deserve to be there. Decades into her nursing career, she chafed at how certain doctors treated the nurses, her frustration at their condescension visible in the flush that would creep up her neck and taint her ears crimson when she talked about it. Still, she never questioned them outright. When I was in high school, our family doctor began performing breast exams on me whenever I had an appointment. I’d come home and diffuse my discomfort with humor, and Mom would try to find a plausible explanation. He believes in preventative medicine. Maybe he’s being very cautious and thorough? But my older sisters admitted they had never had a breast exam, and after seeing him for her own appointment, my mother admitted the same. Eventually, I ran out of jokes. I stopped seeing him before high school graduation, but for over a decade, he continued to renew my parents’ cholesterol medication and recommend their annual skin cancer screenings. When I was in my early 30s, I bumped into him at a July 4th picnic and, in a shaking voice, accused him of molesting me as a teenager. His denials became louder and more high pitched as I walked to my car and with trembling hands, dialed my parents on my cell phone. That week, they had their medical records transferred to a new practice. Finally: an answer to a doctor’s unquestioned authority.
Robert -2022
That’s easy, Dad answers when the funeral director asks him the secret to being happily married for 52 years. The secret is, I was married to her. Our parents grew up together, their parents dear friends who shared a wicked sense of humor and similar time frames in which to start their families. Barbara and Robert first shared a playpen, then shared a casual friendship until their 20s, when something bloomed between them and never faded. Mom couldn’t talk about their long life together without becoming weepy with emotion. He’s such a good man, she’d say, her eyes welling up. When my sisters and I were young, Dad would open the front door after work and call up the stairs, Where’s my bride? We’d watch, delighted, as he kissed her hello; then, as adolescents, we’d exaggerate our horror: Gross! Get a room. Three daughters, three college educations. Three weddings that ended in two divorces. Three grandchildren. Retirement, at long last. 50 summer vacations in North Truro and additional adventures chasing the turquoise waters of Costa Rica, Bonaire, Turks and Caicos. A rib broken trying to climb into a boat in Belize. Sneakers dusty with earth from numerous national parks. Boxes of saved anniversary cards: To Bob, Love Barb. Dear Barb, Love Bob. Valentine’s Day and New Year’s Eve dinners cooked with his hands, eaten with her compliments. Year 52: The calendar used for birthday reminders now crowded with Mom’s doctor’s appointments and treatment schedules. A separate chart for tracking pain medication and chemotherapy pills, recorded in Dad’s hand. Mom dozing on the couch in the living room when the front door opens. Where’s my bride? Dad calls, then comes to kiss her hello.
Sister -2015
A hug and a kiss for each of her sisters, then a giggle of delight as she swats her brother playfully on the butt. As the oldest of four siblings in the family, she was a born nurturer and the one who followed the rules growing up. The second followed close behind in her footsteps; by the time three and four were teenagers, she was out of the house attending nursing school and missed out on their “free spirit” years. Back when our kitchen phone still had a spiral cord that connected it to the wall, she’d stretch it nearly straight across the room while cooking dinner, the handset balanced precariously between her head and shoulder so she could chop and stir as she listened to whoever was talking. Mmm-hmmm. Mmmm-hmmm. Okay, she’d murmur, her brows knitting together above her glasses. It seemed to us an endless loop of bad news on the other end of the phone; how much ministering could she accomplish before the oven timer went off? Now that we’re grown, we recognize that adulthood brings adult-sized problems; sometimes, in order to bear your current reality, you just need someone to pick up the phone. Oh, but how they come alive when they are all in the same room! How quickly the burdens fall away. From the doorway of the kitchen, the oldest smiles as she watches two, three, and four tease each other, their eyes shining with mischief. They wave her in and, laughing, ask her, Do you remember that time…?
Tickle –1982
It’s time for me to get up for school, but I don’t want to go today. I snuggle with my teddy bear and close my eyes when I hear Mom walking down the hallway. Amyyyy, she calls. I squeeze my eyes tighter so she’ll really think I’m sleeping. She sits down on the bed and touches my forehead. Then she traces my eyebrows and my nose with her fingers, tickling my skin. She touches my cheeks and my lips, but it tickles too much and I forget that I’m supposed to be sleeping, so I open my eyes and laugh. Mom is laughing, too. She kisses my forehead, then my teddy bear. How about some Ovaltine, honey? I’ll put it in your bunny mug. She holds out her hand. I guess I’m going to school today.
Unusual -2018
Mom holds out the neon pink brogues I slipped off when I arrived, turning them over for further inspection. Bob, she calls. Have you seen Amy’s shoes? They’re so…unusual! I burst out laughing. “Unusual” is her favorite way to describe some of my most unconventional style decisions, with “wild” coming in at a close second. Is that green nail polish on your toes, honey? I’ve never seen that shade before. It’s so…unusual! Or, Look at those sneakers! Is that leopard print? Those are…wild! Mom is not a color-outside-the-lines kind of person. For starters, she’s a Virgo. And Catholic. And the oldest sibling. During my teenage years, our differences often resulted in stand-offs in store dressing rooms. Honey, what do you think about this? I thought it would be cute, she’d say hopefully, handing me a garment I would rather die than wear to school. Ummm…for you or for me? I’d ask, both of us sighing in frustration. Now that I’m an adult, she tries so hard to meet me where I am: A shock of purple in my hair. A tattoo to mark my divorce. A necklace that looks like it could double as a door knocker. In time, we’ll laugh about these decisions and so many more. Remember when…? she’ll say, laughing and shaking her head with the memory of some questionable fashion choice I tried to make work for a while. That was wild!
Voting -2016
We’ll let you in on a wild secret, our parents would tease when they got home and we’d beg to know who got their vote. We voted for Mickey Mouse! Exasperated, we’d ask why they wouldn’t just tell us, already. Voting is a choice you make in private, they’d say. When you’re old enough to vote, it’s your decision to make. The important thing is that you do it.
November 2016: We suspect Mom and Dad vote for Donald Trump. The world my sisters and I had inhabited screeches to a halt on its axis: The PBS NewsHour streaming into the family room nightly. Donations to the local homeless shelter and food pantry. Mom, collecting money for Unicef from our neighbors. Dad, writing checks to United Way Worldwide. Kindness and helping others in need are the tenets on which our family is built. Photos of Dad’s beloved cousin and her wife. Love extended to my Black partner. How to make sense of any of this? We don’t. Instead, we dial the phone with pits in our stomachs. Let’s give him a chance, Mom says. We try to remember a person is not the sum of their worst decisions. We end up yelling, anyway. March 2020: The world we all inhabit screeches to a halt on its axis. Edges soften and blur. We dial the phone with pits in our stomachs, hoping the virus will spare us all. Praying the odds will work in our favor to keep our family intact.
Work –1982
Mom says she has to go back to work. She’ll be a nurse again, she says. She’ll help take care of sick people who need help. But I don’t want you to go, I tell her. I don’t want you to leave me. She promises, I’ll be home at night to tuck you in. And Dad will be here to cook you dinner. Before I fall asleep, I imagine her leaving in her car and never coming home to us. Some days, I cry so hard watching her drive away that I can’t turn my head. You’ve given yourself a Charlie horse, Mom says later, rubbing my neck until it doesn’t hurt anymore. After a while, she tells me she’s going to wait on going back to work. Just a little while longer, she says. Just ’til you’re a little bit older. She kisses my cheek, and I hug her tight.
X -2000
Mom’s kisses always found their way to us. On notes in school lunches. On cookies in college care packages, or on the paper wrapping of French-milled soaps she found in Marshall’s. A handwritten X, sometimes joined by an O. Just a little something, she’d say, handing us a bag with fuzzy socks to keep our feet warm in winter or a magazine she thought we might like. I saw it and thought of you. Look closely at the corner of the bag. Look closely at the tag on the socks. Somewhere on the cover of the magazine, it’s there: Always, a kiss, marked by an X.
Yale –2000
If you could please sign by the X right here, the receptionist says, turning the clipboard toward me. I scribble my signature and walk back to my seat next to Mom, who is flipping through her latest issue of Better Homes & Gardens. She squeezes my hand as I rest my head against the wall and close my eyes against the wave of nausea that has risen at the back of my throat. We are back at Yale-New Haven Hospital for another round of GI tests. Mom reaches in her cotton tote bag. Do you want some ginger ale, honey? she whispers, offering me the can. I shake my head no and squeeze her hand to thank her. It’s been two years since my symptoms started. I’m living at home with Mom and Dad, trying to work full time while navigating my health issues. On my lunch hour, I often drive the 20 minutes back to their house, sleep for 20 minutes, then drive back to the office. Most nights, Mom and I sit at the kitchen table and talk over peppermint tea before I crawl in bed and she joins Dad to watch TV. Sometimes, she cracks the door to check in on me, the 24 year old daughter still sleeping in the twin bed of her childhood. In the morning, we’ll meet back in the kitchen, where she’ll encourage me to eat a few spoonfuls of yogurt and offer to make me some toast. She’ll place her warm, dry hand gently on my head and run her fingers through my hair, giving me the gift of whatever comfort she can. Nurse. Nurturer. Mother. Mom.
Zero –2024
46: The number of years I was blessed to call her my mother. Zero: The number of days I haven’t missed her since.
Amy Flyntz (she/her) is a writer living in Brooklyn. She is the founder of Amy Flyntz Copywriting, LLC, where she weaves words primarily for women-owned businesses. Her personal essays often center around the themes of love, loss, reproductive rights, and choosing to be child-free. When she’s not writing, she’s exploring the city with her partner Hermann or snuggling with their 65 lb. lap dog, Linus. Amy has attended writing workshops at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, MA; her work has previously appeared in Electric Literature and the Girls Write Now anthologies. Learn more at amyflyntz.com.
Artwork Commissioned from Anita Eralie Schley.
Anita Eralie Schley graduated from the University of Utah in 1996 with BFA in Studio Art. In addition to having her work in a multitude of galleries and publications, she has also taught art through continuing education classes, an Alternative high school drawing class in Box Elder County, the college setting as an alternative photography processes substitute at Salt Lake Community College and was the photography program director for CLASS Art School. Anita is both a painter and a photographer and enjoys exploring different mediums in her artwork. She has received multiple awards throughout her career including most recently: Honorable Mention 2023 for the Workshop13 exhibit RED, Award of Merit 2022 Utah Women Artists Exhibit, Best of Show 2020 Box Elder Museum Photography group exhibit. She lives in Springville, Utah with her husband. She has four adult children and recently became a grandmother for the first time.
The Turning Leaf Journal 