Mother Jenny Y.
When I look at my mom, I see a mother happily settled with a husband and a daughter. I see that though age has thickened her waistline and lined her face, she still carries herself with the youthful legs of a 20-year-old and lets her thick, black hair trail across her shoulders. When I look at her, although I see a woman in her late 40s, I can still see the girl she once was in rural China – a girl my age, but with so much more courage than I could ever hope to have.
My mom's story begins on a small farm in the Shandong Province of communist China. I close my eyes and suddenly I'm there, on the hard dirt, smelling the earthy musk of the air, feeling a warm sun behind my head, with nothing but fields for miles. And I see my mom. She swears I look almost like she did at my age. She's far away, but I can see that her skin, though slightly dirty from her work in the fields, is still much paler than mine; though her back is hunched from the yoke she is carrying, I see that her thin body moves athletically.
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