Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Telling mom.

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For the first decade of my life, each limited conversation I had with my brother began with “Don’t tell mom…” Maybe that’s the way with all siblings. Or maybe he knew early on that we had a special bond. She was the only one I wanted to tell everything to. From skinned knees to skinned feelings. Not for tattling, but just to share what was happening with me. Because she always understood. A built-in empathy that was recognizable from the start. 

Yesterday the universe scraped at my heart a little. Of course it will heal. The sting from the air has already subsided. But the need to tell my mom hasn’t.  My hand continues to reach for the phone. My fingers type her email address. And I am that little girl. Dirt smudged tears remind me — they remind me that without words, she always knew. That’s what my brother had to learn. What I’m learning now. It wasn’t that I ever explained my heartache, my mishap, my tripping, she just knew. She always knew. 

I catch a tear in my smile. There is no need to explain. I know she knows. She understands without conversation. A forever recognizable balm for my heart. And I am saved.

Author: jodihills

I am an author and an artist, originally from the US, now living, loving and creating in the south of France. I show my fine art throught the US and Europe, and sell my books, art and images throughout the world.

One thought on “Telling mom.

  1. Thank you for sharing stories of Ivy’s life and what your mom meant to you. I am getting to know you and Ivy better. I miss my mom too. I called her every day.❤️

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