The Spittin' Image of Mom

"Actually, I was expecting someone with a full head of reddish-brown hair," I say to the gray-haired balding specimen squinting back at me from the bathroom mirror. It's not the first time I've been surprised and confused like this. In fact, it happens more these days, and sometimes it's annoying.
Like when I'm walking down the sidewalk innocently minding my own business and all is well, but then I'm suddenly ambushed from a storefront window by my own slouching reflection, which in turn awakens my inner scoutmaster: "Suck in that gut, shoulders back, atta boy, stand up straight; there now, that's more like it."
It's kind of obnoxious, actually. But not always.
For example, the other day one particularly sneaky mirror in a coffee shop gave me a candid glimpse of myself. I was the spittin' image of my mom when she's deciding whether to buy something at a hardware store, or figuring out her reply to some amazing thing I've just said. The gears in her head then turn as she wavers between desire and prudence, or maybe between admiration and utter stupefaction.
Whatever I was thinking at the time, there she was, looking back at me from behind my face in the mirror.
For some of my friends, discovering in themselves such traces of their moms would be the kiss of death. Me? I savor such fleeting moments.
Because the woman I call mom has class: a single parent with two kids, always there when we needed her, reliable as the dawn; a pioneering businesswoman from the days when banks refused to lend to women; a lover of quality--whether in a thread of yarn, an elegant old house, or an exquisite solo in the Seattle Opera.
And how many older women could receive the news that her son was gay as graciously as she did? She was front and center for Rob's and my wedding, loves him like a son, and adores her grandson, David. She's a blessing beyond words to my family.
Today, at 89, she takes long morning walks around her neighborhood, runs errands for the folks in her condominium complex, reads voraciously, hangs out with her good friend Joe and his lively dog, Abby, and even joins them for weekend camping trips.
And, oh yes. She, too, thinks George Bush is a cretan.
And just think: I sometimes look like her; I'm made from the same stuff! It makes me glad.