Victoria Reeves
My mom, Sherry, rode her wheelchair like a Queen in a motorcade.
Dr Zhivago hat from Neiman Marcus. Black leather and mink. Warm in her purple wool poncho, masquerading. Electric battery hidden under her flowing poncho - lovingly designed and hand-sewn by me.
Flowered, cotton sundresses and straw hats for summer. Simple designs with no zippers or buttons. Silk flower on a comb holding back straight black hair. Salon visits. Manicures. Red nails. Girl talk. Laughter.
What would I do if I was diagnosed with MS at age 30? Collapse? Retreat? Endure?
My mom prayed every day. Cried. Prayed. Prayed again. Put on lipstick.
Told me, over and over, “Vic, people are like plants. You need to water them.”
Rolling into local haunts like an MC, hostess, dignitary - she captivated every audience.
“Hey sweetie. What’s your story? Did you grow up in Chicago?” Deflecting concern or stares, she asked people about their lives. Memorized the names and backstories of every waitress, busboy, hostess, and restaurant owner in Flossmoor, Homewood, Park Forest. Social butterfly of the South Suburbs.
Regular appearances at Al’s Deli, Mitchell’s Ice Cream, Aurelio’s Pizza.
“Hi Sherry!!!!!”. They knew her by name.
Paralyzed from the waist down, she could still gesture emphatically. Expressive. Passionate.
Like an art exhibit in motion, Sherry wore sacred spider web turquoise and malachite jewelry. Every month she visited a local gift shop. Bought Hopi and Navajo rings and bracelets. Signature pieces. Real silver. Handmade. A veritable collection curated over decades.
After a 14-hour wake at Tews Funeral Home in Homewood (intentionally long so all her service worker friends could attend), my dad, sister and I drive back home, gutted.
In my parent’s bedroom, we stand - staring at black and white photos. My mom on a horse when she was little. My parents in NYC as newlyweds. Reluctant. Her dresser. A brush with hair still in it. Gray AM|FM radio next to the bed. And then I see a tiny wicker basket with her jewelry.
“It’s ok, Vic. Take whatever you like,” my dad smiles, going into the kitchen to make a sandwich. Carl Buddig ham and butter on Pepperidge Farm white bread. Mom’s favorite.
I try on a squash blossom necklace. Some clip-on turquoise earrings. Bracelets. Nope.
Then I see it.
“I just want this one ring. The one mom wore every day.” I tell my dad, sliding it on my finger.
Now, when I write and travel across the USA in my tiny camper van, I wear that ring. Holding the steering wheel or crafting stories on my laptop, my mom’s Hopi talisman lives on my right hand - pinkie.
I love you - road dog. Spirit guide. Curious adventurer. Let’s ride.