My mother is a muse. I don’t mean that metaphorically, like one of Andy Warhol’s white-blonde muses (always draped over a folding chair or smirking with a cigarette), I mean she is one born from the movement of water sent to Earth to whisper secrets into waiting ears of poets. You wouldn’t know it to look at her, of course. To most she appears willowy, vague and pretty. Her eyes are watery and grey, her hair the color of dark chocolate. Up until quite recently I didn’t notice how lovely and enchanting she is. To me she is simply there and everywhere, her beauty is painted in watercolors: not bold, just always present.
When most people think of a muse they think of a Roman woman with long arms and legs, draped in white robes and playing a lyre. My mother is not Roman, and she doesn’t have a lyre. She does wear skinny jeans shoved into rich leather boots and is usually in the presence of a rugged and slightly dangerous musician (or two). We don’t live in the midst of other muses, there is no circling of art and beauty inspiring sisters around a fountain. It’s just us, our cats, and sometimes Godmother. Our apartment complex has a pool, but no fountains. My mother has no friends, outside of the musicians.