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My mom’s birthday is a day of remembrance now. Instead of moments of celebration and joy, there are moments of silence and despair. It’s been four years and it doesn’t quite get better, but sink deeper. The permanence seems more manageable the older I get, less time I’m alive to process this loss. The timer lessens the older I get, which is the only comfort I’ve found throughout this time.
Today I listen to the music you loved, the songs you bobbed your head and bounced your knee to, like tributes to all those nights of banter and laughter we once had. I spent an absurd amount on cakes and cookies that I’ll never get through, but I know you would have. I’ll eventually sacrifice the mummified crumbs to the trash gods thinking how this wouldn’t have happened if you were here. I had hibachi for lunch and ate the whole thing like an animal — I don’t regret it for a minute — you would have been right there next to me, if you were here. You’ll mumble shit-talk throughout the whole show, except you always forget your mumble is a dull roar so the cook can hear you, Ma. You’ll fight me over the check, but its your G.D. birthday so get over it! Now, I can’t help but remember that time when I was broke in college and we went out for all that seafood that you insisted on; then you offered five dollars because you were broke too. I find myself reminiscing over birthday cards from you that I’ve held onto all these years, where you direct me to “wait until Wednesday to cash this check”. God, I miss your humility.
It’s warm today and that means I’m gonna get Carvel tonight, and bring home a cup of pistachio ice cream because it’s your birthday. oOo! We should get a pack of those flying saucers! It’ll probably cost eighty-six dollars, but it who cares? You’re already dead.
I hate myself for planning on so much more time with you. What a fool. Contrary to your belief, you were never a burden. I was looking forward to having so much more time with you — living the Dorothy and Estelle life soon enough. I wanted to take care of you. I’m glad we’ve spent so much time together, although it was never enough. That’s why when I told you I loved you, I said infinity; my love knows no bounds. It remains endless still, except now you’re not here. So, it metabolizes into grace and indignation within myself. I love and hate you for being so unapologetically you. Thank you for giving me some of that. I promise to make something of it.
But not today. Today, I mourn. I weep to your voicemails and emails, and try to form more emotional callouses in hopes of May being a little easier this year. As the last few years have shown, showers will continue after April for me and well into May. This cycle is never-ending, but there is a path beginning to form through this grief. I’m focusing more on the good times — the surprises and gifts that lit you up. The silly quips and backhands that you shot out of the ether. Until the next time this undertaking overtakes me, because the truth is, it will happen again. And again and again. At least now I get that.
An ode to my mom, Marg -- she was somebody's, fucking mother.