As a child, nothing held mystery like my mother’s dresser drawers. They housed finery only a grown woman possessed. In the top drawer, the one she opened when dressing to go somewhere very fancy my one ‘real’ piece of jewelry, a golden bangle, lay safely in its square white box. My paternal grandmother passed the heirloom on to me, as the first Miss Donovan, while I was still a young child and while she was still very much alive, although long a widow. 

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As I sit squashed into economy seating on my second American Airlines plane of the day, having started this journey in the dark and snowy pre-dawn, first driving for four hours, flying for another six, to find a place at the Thanksgiving table among my siblings, children, mother, all 3000 miles away, it is not hard to ponder the pull of blood ties and how we, as a nation, and as a world, (as evidenced by the millions of travelers at this moment) strive to find solace in the company of family.

Unsolicited advice is clearly never of value, but we mothers often have to give it. Even asked for advice is not often worth the words we utter… Like when Marnika, not sure what stage to call it, during middle school, started planning her school outfits at night. Never wanting to be classified in any clique, she dressed like a hippy girl one day and a Goth the next. But the night we always remember was when she masterfully managed down the staircase with the three-inch platform lace-up boots bought in Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco, black vinyl pants from the local vintage store that she had to lie down to zip, a non-descript tank-top that didn’t cover much, and a blond Marilyn wig…This evening she came into the living room as we sat reading from our Edna St. Vincent Millay collection. She stood straight shouldered and asked, “Too slutty?”

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