My mother is not like most. She teases. She lies. She angers. But she loves me just the same.
My mother dyes her hair dark brown, and when it fades and the silver streaks show, she looks perfect. Like an old oil painting. Her cheeks are vidrant red, and her eyes are wrinkled. When she laughs, she holds her hand to her face, as if she's holding her nose on. She's graceful when it doesn't matter, and when it does, she is hilariously uncoordinated.
My mother is tough. She gves looks like daggers, she hates, she angers. But she cries as well. She's strong, but she is weak as well.
She teases. She laughs. She loves.