The first Mother’s Day without her (2014)
Today is hard. They told me Mother’s Day would be, along with other holidays. And true, it was challenging this year on my birthday, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Eat Ice Cream for Breakfast Day, and Easter, not to mention Christmas and New Year’s — all holidays on which we would’ve called each other, mostly out of obligation. But the toughest days so far have been random.
I’ll be folding a clean, white sheet at home or riding a packed Muni bus through Chinatown, or driving home from a Jack London Square dive bar. A memory of you will attack me then, and I’ll have to park the car, get off the bus, or put the sheet down on the bed for a moment, and let the tears flow, battling with myself to be grateful for the time we had, to remember you “with smiles, not tears,” feeling shame for dishonoring you by wasting precious time in this short life being sad, blah blah blah… and ultimately reminding myself (as my friends often do) to let my grief be what it is.
But the worst days, the most gut-wrenching days, are when I wake up with a lump in my throat, remembering that morning I got the call that you were dead. Those days the tears don’t stop. Those are the days when I most want to pick up the phone and call you, just to hear your voice. But I resign myself to a long, silent conversation with the ten-ton glob of antimatter that has taken hold of my heart, primal sobs wracking my entire body.
During these times, one of the memories that often comes up is our last visit together, back in October. We’d been toying with the idea of your visit for months. You were never quick to commit to a plan that you didn’t think of first, oh Gemini Mother! Thankfully, we finally agreed on the dates and I bought the tickets, flying you up from Palm Springs first to see your half-sister Marilyn in Sacramento, then after a couple of days she drove you to our new house in Oakland.
To be honest, I half expected you not to show up. I was anxious about your visit, Mom, feared you would be uncomfortable, that you wouldn’t approve of our ol’ fixer-upper house, that you would think our friends were weird, that you would be hard to please, that you would get too drunk. But I was being an asshole, and I was so wrong. You loved our house, loved being in the midst of so many trees. You enjoyed meeting all the eclectic, costumed people who showed up at our Halloween Party, even rallying to form your own impromptu yet stylish devil-witch getup.
During your visit, I was in the midst of a work shitstorm, toiling away angrily on my laptop, so I neglected you much of the time. You didn’t seem to mind, and I’d see you out of the corner of my eye sitting contentedly in the living room, just watching me, or you’d stroll outside and lounge on our patio couch, reading one of your crime novels or gazing peacefully out at the amazing view.
One day, while we were having lunch at a nearby cafe, you asked me what I thought of “hot pink.” I answered distractedly, suspiciously — I said something like, “It depends.” (Again, what an asshole.) I think in that instant, I was flashing back to my brooding, black-attired, ripped-fishnet goth adolescence, when your perfectly matched outfits and love of bright colors, like fuchsia and teal, atomic tangerine and neon lime, would absolutely appall me. It wasn’t until after you’d passed, and I was sorting through your overwhelming collection of shoes with your friend/assistant Michael, that I’d learned why you asked: a fantastic pair of hot pink wedges with gold studs that, Michael explained, you’d seen in a store and just had to buy for me.
We had other, deeper conversations on that trip. You told me you were happy with David, your husband of 27 years, that you were proud of me, that you loved Andrew. You filled me in on bits of our past in Oakland that I never knew (like, how I had loved Jack London Square as a child! How you went to the hottest all-Black jazz clubs, with a Lawrence Livermore Lab engineer friend!) when we lived in San Jose. And despite your demand for a bottle of Smirnoff Passionfruit — a liquor I found distasteful and beneath you, and for which I was annoyed that we had to drive around Oakland in search of — you were a gracious guest, an interested friend, a present and loving mother.
At one point, you confided in me that you wanted to make more of an effort to spend time with family, with me. It moved me deeply; you had always been such a private person — even with me — and so independent of the rest of your family, and David’s. It’s a trait I’ve taken on myself, for good or bad. And your change of heart shocked and inspired me.
I can still feel the warmth of your hug when I dropped you off at the airport. You promised to return in a few months, with David. I was really looking forward to it.
***
Now, when I’m at home, I can’t help but see it all with your eyes, imagining what you saw on that trip. I take in all that old brick I whitewashed in the living room, the wood-paneled walls painted white, the folk art and hanging plants, the red library packed with the most disparate book collection ever, the coffee table covered with candles and cannabis riffraff, stacks of Esquire and Food and Wine underneath, Mango snoring on his bed by the fireplace. My gentle ribbing of Andrew; his hilariously offhand tirades. I make sure to walk outside and admire that view, as you did, as much as possible. I promise to never take it for granted, Mom. And I hope your view is even more spectacular now.
By the way, hot pink is my new favorite color.
Love you forever and ever,
Me