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I was checking the top shelf of my closet last week. A cold spell was forecast, and I wanted to see what scarves and gloves survived last season and might be found in inventory.

An old pair of earmuffs fell down. The ear coverings were made of mink. I hadn’t worn the pair in years. I thought it impractical to have a mink accessory when the impulse to don headgear came when I had to walk the dog or shovel.

The pair belonged to my mother.

The earmuffs suited her style. She had a flare for the theatrical and she cared more about how she looked than about practical concerns like dressing for warmth.

She wanted to present herself well at all times. When she was admitted to the hospital, for various reasons over her last decade, she’d only greet visitors after she had put in her “teeth,” her dentures.

She always wore lipstick. Not quite Hedy Lamar, screen siren red but close to that shade.

I remember one Sunday, when she was already in her mid-eighties, I came over to her place to make dinner and attempt to help with the crossword puzzle.

She greeted me at the door wearing white culottes and a navy and white horizontally striped top. She also wore a short strand of pearls.

After a hello hug, I asked her why she was wearing the neckless. In my mind, I was clearly referring to her unnecessary inclination to put on jewelry just to watch me stir fry vegetables and do the crossword puzzle, but my understanding of her wardrobe choices didn’t cross her mind.

I remember her expression. How could I ask something where the answer was so obvious?

“What do you mean? Because it matches.”

And now, I stood in my hallway staring at her earmuffs. They were especially symbolic to me. They represented so much pain and disappointment. So great a disconnect!

I remembered, one winter night, driving her to the opera or symphony. As the unmarried daughter in my family, even in my fifties, it was my job to take her on such culture dates.

After seeing a billboard for The Men’s Wearhouse, she echoed the tag line their TV pitchman used to repeat about their satisfied customers. Uttered with sincerity and gravity, like casting a spell, she intoned:

“You’re going to like the way you look.”

Snug in her mink coat and earmuffs, fresh layer of lipstick applied, she sat in the passenger seat quietly as I drove downtown and reeled off the latest news from my life.

After ten minutes, as if the realization that I was talking just dawned on her, she blurted out in a loud voice, “I can’t hear you!”

She didn’t suffer from dementia. In so many ways, her mind was sharp. She was conversant on topics brought up in shows like “Meet the Press” or “Face the Nation.”

This was just the way things were in our relationship. She never thought about being able to hear me better if she considered the impediments. In this case, if she took off her earmuffs. I always felt she could have made more of an effort to hear me.

The scene replayed in my mind for years, usually arousing anger, disappointment, or irritation.

Friends and self-help pundits have reminded me how important it can be to FORGIVE, saying it is more for the benefit of the person who has been hurt.

Dead for over a decade, I’ve concluded that forgiving my mother was not withheld because of the absence of an apology but from me needing to feel authentic. I thought many of my mother’s ways were simply unconscionable. I never felt protected by her. I never felt cherished, which I thought was a mother’s first job.

But now, the memory of my mink-eared mother’s pronouncement, mimicking The Men’s Wearhouse spokesperson, “You’re going to like the way you look,” is stronger than her refrain, “I can’t hear you.”

Being a little closer to forgiveness is no small thing.

Re-printed with permission.

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