Beneath the summer glow of the mall’s skylights, my mom and I savored our ice cream cones. She motioned over to a park bench, worn smooth by countless shoppers before us. We sat in comfortable silence, letting the sweetness melt on our tongues – mint chocolate chip for her adventurous spirit, plain chocolate for my simpler tastes.
“You can learn a lot about someone from their shoes,” she mused, her eyes twinkling with quiet wisdom. I followed her gaze to a man in a crisp gray suit, sporting rebellious red and white sneakers. A laugh bubbled up from within me. Until then, I hadn’t realized how shoes could tell stories. My eyes wandered over the mall’s landscape of footwear—some constricting their wearers like past mistakes, others floating in naive comfort, and one languid soul shuffling by in house slippers, prompting us to share a conspiratorial giggle.
“It’s like the three little bears,” I said, catching a rivulet of chocolate before it escaped down the cone.
“Which way is north?” she asked, her question floating between us like a gentle challenge. The sun’s rays filtered through the skylight, casting shadows that danced across the tile floor. I traced our path backward through the maze of stores, piecing together our journey onto an imaginary compass.
“That way!” I declared, pointing with the conviction only a child can muster.
“You’re very close. Try again.”
The shadows whispered their secrets, and my eyes shifted right. “That way!” I announced triumphantly.
“Good job,” she smiled, returning to her cone with quiet pride.
Mona was a wisp of a woman, all angles and determination. Her sandy red hair defied gravity and convention, a wild halo that seemed to capture her untamable spirit. She dressed for life’s adventures rather than its pageants, choosing comfort over pretense in everything she wore.
Childhood had left its mark on her smile – a bicycle accident, a concrete curb, and the reality of being one of six children in a family where dental care was an unaffordable luxury. Though she rarely smiled for cameras, her warmth radiated in person like the gentle warmth of a sunbeam breaking through the clouds. She possessed an uncanny ability to anticipate needs before they arose, her generosity flowing as naturally as breath. Her humor was like a delayed spark, often striking you with its brilliance long after the moment had passed.
Our mall visits were rare gems in the ordinary stream of days, precious moments when I had her attention all to myself, undiluted by others gravitating to her charm. As the last sticky sweetness of ice cream faded, the pulse of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” escaped from the nearby record store, its rhythm calling like a siren song. My face lit up like Christmas morning, a silent plea in my eyes. The bass thumped through the floor as I wiggled and sang the only lyrics I knew with unrestrained joy: “Thrillerrrr, thriller night!”
Mona bobbed along behind me as we navigated the music store and found it—the album cover gleaming like a holy relic under the fluorescent lights, showcasing Michael Jackson in a white suit. The unusual foldout album contained a debut of a tiger cub, which made the experience even more adorable for a pre-teen. The store’s video screen flickered with the now-iconic music video, and I attempted to mirror the zombie moves, improvising my own interpretation when precision failed me. Mona’s laughter, warm and genuine, wrapped around me like a familiar blanket.
“Let’s go pay for it,” she said, and my heart stuttered.
“Really? But I didn’t bring my money,” I confessed, hope and doubt wrestling in my voice. I had a newspaper route in our apartment complex and I was learning to save money.
“That’s okay. My treat,” she replied, pulling out her boyish wallet out of her back pocket, as practical and unpretentious as she was. As she leaned against the counter, her eyes met mine with that special sparkle that meant magic was happening. “Now you can practice the dance at home.”
“Yeah,” I breathed, envisioning my bedroom transformed into a dance studio. In my mind, I rearranged furniture like puzzle pieces, creating the ideal space for my future performances. “Thanks, Mom!” I exclaimed, wrapping my arms around her waist in a tight hug. I loved her scent, and her laughter resonated warmly in her chest. With the pure essence of a pre-teen at heart and the album gripped tightly in my fingers, we wandered down the mall’s gleaming corridor, confident in our shoes and our hearts full of music.
Looking back now, those rare mall visits shimmer like jewels in my memory. The way she taught me to be mindful of my cardinal direction, her quiet delight in people-watching, and the spontaneous gift of ‘Thriller’—these weren’t just random moments, but careful brushstrokes in her masterpiece of motherhood. Today, when I catch my reflection in store windows or hear the distant thrum of ’80s music, I think of my mom, Mona. Her lessons, wrapped in ice cream and vinyl records, have become part of who I am. She showed me that beauty lives in authenticity and that sometimes the best gifts come wrapped in ordinary moments.