Betsy Lackey

I have a bump on my finger – my right index finger – just like the bump my mother had on her right index finger. Recently I asked my doctor about it. She said that it’s a bone spur, and that sometimes they can be hereditary.

 My mother and I were very different people – she was an introvert; I was a performer. She was happy to be on the sidelines, and I needed to be in the middle of the action.

 When I was a child, everyone said I looked like my father – I had his blue eyes, his sandy brown hair. I didn’t look like my mother; I was my father’s child.

 As a young adult, everyone said I looked like my mother’s sister who died when I was twelve. I would go to family events – weddings, funerals – and people would call me “Millie,” shocked because they knew Millie was dead. I didn’t look like my mother; I looked exactly like her sister.

 But over the years I’ve come to realize that I do share traits with my mother – the bump on my finger, the mole on my back. My laugh is her laugh and my voice is hers – so much so that my mother’s brother would talk to me on the phone as if he was talking to his sister.

 Mom has been gone now eleven years, and while we certainly did not always agree, I still miss her everyday.

 And so I’m grateful for the bump on my finger that is just like the bump on my mother’s finger – she is still here with me in her own quiet way.