COSETTE

Long before I'd ever heard of "Les Miserables", Cosette was the most beautiful name a woman could have. Everyone else called her Cozy. I liked using her full name, like it was our secret language. Cosette, plump and soft, cozy was what she was when she held me. Dancing with me on her hip, crushed against her soft arms and pillowed breast. The beat of the Country Music would thud into my body from her cushioned frame and timed steps. Still to this day , there is no equal to a soft thud coming from a woman's metered movements.

The fragrance of her always made me feel safe and loved. The fragrance of long dances and Sarsaparilla (Root beer) we would share. Frozen mugs filled with that sweetened carbonated wonder and a head of foam sprinkled with nutmeg. A liquid copy of the sweetest, bubbly woman with a head of curls the color of Sarsaparilla , with nutmeg highlights.

"This is our song", she would whisper to almost every song. But not every song was ours. There were other women who would dance with me to gain my Dad's favor. They would support me on uncomfortable boney hips , leaning away from me and my hunger for a mother. The least amount of contact. Then Cosette would swoop in to rescue me. Enfolded and whirling, I wanted every dance with her to last forever.

Sometimes she was an impromptu babysitter. Taking me to her house that always smelled of fresh bread and vanilla. She would put me in a little bed at the foot of her bed. Matching quilts made me feel like we were on the same team. I would hear the mattress sigh as she sat down, a quiet copy of my contentment.
Sometimes I would hear her quietly cry, my throat would then ache from holding back my own wail.

Cosette was what young people today say is a " booty call". Whenever all the other juke joint princesses were otherwise engaged for the evening, my Dad would resort to her booty that answered his calls. Those evenings I had to sleep on her couch. I hated those nights, no longer a part of her team, I was on the bench. At five years old, I wasn't thinking of her booty. As an adult I find that's the kind of bottom that's at the top of my list of all stars. Major League.

My memory doesn't remember what happened or when. We moved on or she moved away. But my vision of the perfect mother was chiseled in stone and permanently anchored in place. A thick female who listens when a child speaks and laughs when a child jokes is perfection. That big block babe who can truly enjoy herself while making moves on the dancefloor will always be in vogue. Sweet and bubbly with a head on her shoulders, Sarsaparilla hair with nutmeg highlights doesn't hurt.

I don't know if a five year old can be in love, but I loved the idea of calling Cosette, "Mamma". They say when boys grow up they find woman like their Momma. My birth mother was nothing like Cosette. The mother of my children was very like Cosette. Root beer colored hair with nutmeg highlights included. I think that could be called a compliment.

Cosette is one of the most beautiful names a woman can have. I don't think I ever knew her last name , though I always wished it was the same as mine.
If I could talk to you now, I'd take a gamble and tell about wanting to call you Momma.

Happy Mother's Day Cosette.