April 12, 2007
Though I can’t remember exactly how old I was when the arts and crafts fair visited Thornwood Elementary in Houston, I do remember the excitement I felt in anticipation of the event. When the day finally arrived, I reminded my mother of the fair on our daily dash to school and she hurriedly reached into her always disheveled and never zipped purse to hand me a few crumpled dollar bills dug out from among lint covered Certs, old receipts, and loose pennies. It was just enough money to keep me quiet and get me out of her rusty mint green Monte Carlo so she could speed off to work.
Upon entering the fair later that day, I was immediately overwhelmed by all of the choices laid out on the brightly colored tables. My blue eyes must have glazed over as I raced around the room, wild blond hair blowing behind me, as I anxiously roamed from table to table intent on taking a mental inventory of all my choices. There were vibrant silk change purses, collapsible combs, rubber bracelets, hair clips, and glittery pencils. I carefully examined all the merchandise and contemplated silently to myself as I made my rounds from table to table three and four times each. Eventually time was running out and I had to make a decision.
I headed back to a table I had visited many times before and asked the pretty Asian woman if I could buy a small heart shaped red compact, with the name “MOM” in painted white letters on the outside. She smiled at me, and said “I made a good choice” while she placed the item in a brown paper lunch bag, as I bent down to retrieve my neatly folded dollar bills by unzipping the pocket on my Velcro Kangaroo shoes.
After school that day, as my mom picked me up from daycare at Mrs. Lipps’s house, I could barely contain my excitement. When we arrived home I threw myself and my book bag onto the blue carpet floor of our den and un-wrapped the heart-shaped compact mirror and presented it to my mom. Her eyes immediately lit up and I can still hear her gasp as she exclaimed, “Jessica, I love it. I will keep it with me always.”
My mother kept that promise. For the rest of her days that mirror would travel from one disheveled purse to another as we made our journey through life. On occasion she would pull the mirror out and show it to me asking if I remembered giving it to her, talking to me in the same voice, as if she was still talking to the bright-eyed young girl that gave it to her. My reaction, depending on my age, ranged from silent surprise to a roll of my adolescent eyes.
A few weeks ago, I found that mirror as I went through my mother’s belongings six months after she had passed. The day I found the mirror I felt myself smile as I raced to the sink to wash away the grime that had become encrusted on the compact, no doubt a result of a life living in a dark purse surrounded by loose change and mints. I carefully dried the mirror and placed it in my purse.
I now wonder how many times she looked at that mirror and thought of how much I loved her. How on any hurried day, buried beneath all that she carried was the heart that I had given her. I wonder what she thought of the woman she saw in the reflection; what it all meant to her. I know I will carry the heart she left behind always.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
19-April-2007
As I sat there in the stuffy community room, listening to Latin music wailing, staring at the bizarre pineapple centerpiece, stuck with toothpicks holding sweaty cheddar cheese, olives, grapes, and pepperoni, I thought to myself, oh yes this day was more than I imagined it to be. I looked around and everyone but those directly around me seemed to be in an Augadiente induced haze.
Unlike any other wedding I attended, I did not spend any time beforehand thinking about my gift, what I would wear, or wager a guess as to which clever little details the bride would choose to make the day special and her own.
Instead the week leading up to the wedding was like any other, waking everyday later that I had promised myself the night before, hurriedly getting a shower, feeding the cat, and racing off to work, to struggle to stay just a day or two behind where I told myself I should be. Exhausted after work, I would run errands, and fall into a mind numbing state as I sat on my couch tuning into a few of the shows that had been piling up on my DVR.
All the while in the back of my mind, I knew my brother was getting married on Saturday; I just didn’t have any energy for it. I grew exhausted thinking about it, so I would just put it out of my mind until Friday afternoon, when a colleague inevitably asked “What are you doing this weekend,” and I mumbled to myself, “going to my brother’s wedding.” It took her a couple seconds to comprehend, and she exclaimed “YOU ARE,” “yes” again in a half mumble, it is real; I am going to my brother’s wedding whatever that entails.
What it entailed is my father coming to town. Born in Kearney, New Jersey, he considers himself a native Texan, been there for thirty years, and clearly out of his element anywhere else. I told myself so many times before Saturday, even when he said to me on the phone during the week, “I don’t know where I am staying Saturday night”, what I said, no proclaimed to myself, was “HE IS NOT GOING TO STAY WITH ME.” I don’t dislike him but our differences in everything else but the same aged female friends leave him with only one topic to talk about endlessly. Why Texas is so much better in every way you didn’t know you could imagine.
What I didn’t imagine was arriving to the church on Saturday afternoon to find the doors locked because both the bride and the groom were late to their own wedding. I stood outside on the cool spring Saturday, chilly and annoyed. I picked up the phone and called my brother to hear him say “um yeah we are running REALLY late, I already talked to the priest, he is going to change the service from a full mass just to reading us our rights.” I am in Lambertville I will be there in a little while.
A little while was forty five minutes later, with the arrival of a bride and a groom the wedding was on, and we raced to find our seats as the bride began to walk down the aisle, straps dangling off her shoulders, to the bridal march. I sat there through the beginning of the ceremony not really listening and thinking, who shows up late to their own wedding, this is a crazy debacle, should he even be doing this, when I realized, this was the woman and the life that my brother had chosen. I sat there and looked at him as he looked into his brides eyes, as they child they shared sat on his grandfather’s lap looking at what was unfolding and not understanding that this as imperfect as it seemed it was promise of an official family that I know my brother had longed for since our own had divided. I watched as he nervously stated his vows, and I cried, happy tears.
As I sat there in the stuffy community room, listening to Latin music wailing, staring at the bizarre pineapple centerpiece, stuck with toothpicks holding sweaty cheddar cheese, olives, grapes, and pepperoni, I thought to myself, oh yes this day was more than I imagined it to be. I looked around and everyone but those directly around me seemed to be in an Augadiente induced haze.
Unlike any other wedding I attended, I did not spend any time beforehand thinking about my gift, what I would wear, or wager a guess as to which clever little details the bride would choose to make the day special and her own.
Instead the week leading up to the wedding was like any other, waking everyday later that I had promised myself the night before, hurriedly getting a shower, feeding the cat, and racing off to work, to struggle to stay just a day or two behind where I told myself I should be. Exhausted after work, I would run errands, and fall into a mind numbing state as I sat on my couch tuning into a few of the shows that had been piling up on my DVR.
All the while in the back of my mind, I knew my brother was getting married on Saturday; I just didn’t have any energy for it. I grew exhausted thinking about it, so I would just put it out of my mind until Friday afternoon, when a colleague inevitably asked “What are you doing this weekend,” and I mumbled to myself, “going to my brother’s wedding.” It took her a couple seconds to comprehend, and she exclaimed “YOU ARE,” “yes” again in a half mumble, it is real; I am going to my brother’s wedding whatever that entails.
What it entailed is my father coming to town. Born in Kearney, New Jersey, he considers himself a native Texan, been there for thirty years, and clearly out of his element anywhere else. I told myself so many times before Saturday, even when he said to me on the phone during the week, “I don’t know where I am staying Saturday night”, what I said, no proclaimed to myself, was “HE IS NOT GOING TO STAY WITH ME.” I don’t dislike him but our differences in everything else but the same aged female friends leave him with only one topic to talk about endlessly. Why Texas is so much better in every way you didn’t know you could imagine.
What I didn’t imagine was arriving to the church on Saturday afternoon to find the doors locked because both the bride and the groom were late to their own wedding. I stood outside on the cool spring Saturday, chilly and annoyed. I picked up the phone and called my brother to hear him say “um yeah we are running REALLY late, I already talked to the priest, he is going to change the service from a full mass just to reading us our rights.” I am in Lambertville I will be there in a little while.
A little while was forty five minutes later, with the arrival of a bride and a groom the wedding was on, and we raced to find our seats as the bride began to walk down the aisle, straps dangling off her shoulders, to the bridal march. I sat there through the beginning of the ceremony not really listening and thinking, who shows up late to their own wedding, this is a crazy debacle, should he even be doing this, when I realized, this was the woman and the life that my brother had chosen. I sat there and looked at him as he looked into his brides eyes, as they child they shared sat on his grandfather’s lap looking at what was unfolding and not understanding that this as imperfect as it seemed it was promise of an official family that I know my brother had longed for since our own had divided. I watched as he nervously stated his vows, and I cried, happy tears.
1-May-2007
“The underside of the leaves are showing; that means it is going to rain. That is what your grandfather always said.” Although the sun was still shining and there were not many clouds in sight, I believed my mother as we drove down the highway together, I believed her as I believed her own existence. I am not sure if this is superstition or scientific fact, but I prefer the former. Superstition must be born in the gut, which has been far more reliable than any well-formed hypothesis.
I have never had a banana split for fear that I will die. I have no idea where this came from, and yes, I realize it may sound crazy, Capital crazy. It is what it is, and I have avoided the end all and be all of desserts for so long now that I dodge the dangerous delicacy out of habit and “just to be safe.” I know I am not alone in this, banana split alone yes, but we all have our own and I love hearing others. After leaving the litter box, my cat races around the apartment each and every time, and I wonder if he does not do this if he feels he will turn to poop.
I wonder how many lives have been forever altered by the superstitions that drive them. How these beliefs become like religious rituals as they are passed from generation to generation as the gospel. To this day I would never put a pair of shoes on the table for fear the house would burn down. I almost feel the fear my grandfather must have felt the night his house turned to ash after my great-grandfather laid his shoes on the table the eve before. Although this story was passed down to me from my mother, I see my grandfather as a little boy, frightened to death and forever altered in my mothers recanting, like the fear and the superstition had become a permanent resident in my mothers gut.
Many superstitions seem to be born in you, while others seem to creep in throughout our day-to-day existence. Seriously, I still don’t get the salt thing, but I do it anyway, consistently mixing up the correct shoulder, closing my eyes and tossing in blind faith. “Just to be safe,” I say. I knock on wood, break legs, hold my breath, and never tell what I wish for.
I often wish people didn’t throw out their Christmas trees before New Years. Whenever I see a sad, lonely tree sparsely covered in tinsel, lying on its side next to the trash before the New Year has sprung, I ask myself why this person is in such a rush, and remind myself it would be bad luck to do the same.
One year when we were living in Houston, my mother didn’t take the tree down until July. I swear, I had begged as a little girl before Christmas to buy one of those “pretty trees covered with snow.” “A flocked tree” my mother would later say as we would retell the story to skeptics later on. Since the tree was flocked and in an air-conditioned house it did quite well. After Christmas mom decorated it for Valentines Day, replacing each ornament with a heart-shaped red doily, clovers for St. Patrick’s day, eggs for Easter, and American and Norwegian flags for Independence day. I remember thinking it was strange at the time, and would act embarrassed when my friends came over it saw it, but I loved it. I would sit at the top of our stairs, my elbows resting on my knees, starting in awe at the tree for six months. The house was naked when it was gone.
I look back now on this happy memory of my childhood remembering what it felt like to have the tree in the house and realize how my Christmas tree superstition was born. I carry this one and those of generations before, sharing with so many others in performing rituals, “just to be safe”, despite the fact that we have lost track of their origin. Reason and rationale just don’t seem to exist when it comes to this. It is in the whispers of those that came before us and resonates in the gut.
“The underside of the leaves are showing; that means it is going to rain. That is what your grandfather always said.” Although the sun was still shining and there were not many clouds in sight, I believed my mother as we drove down the highway together, I believed her as I believed her own existence. I am not sure if this is superstition or scientific fact, but I prefer the former. Superstition must be born in the gut, which has been far more reliable than any well-formed hypothesis.
I have never had a banana split for fear that I will die. I have no idea where this came from, and yes, I realize it may sound crazy, Capital crazy. It is what it is, and I have avoided the end all and be all of desserts for so long now that I dodge the dangerous delicacy out of habit and “just to be safe.” I know I am not alone in this, banana split alone yes, but we all have our own and I love hearing others. After leaving the litter box, my cat races around the apartment each and every time, and I wonder if he does not do this if he feels he will turn to poop.
I wonder how many lives have been forever altered by the superstitions that drive them. How these beliefs become like religious rituals as they are passed from generation to generation as the gospel. To this day I would never put a pair of shoes on the table for fear the house would burn down. I almost feel the fear my grandfather must have felt the night his house turned to ash after my great-grandfather laid his shoes on the table the eve before. Although this story was passed down to me from my mother, I see my grandfather as a little boy, frightened to death and forever altered in my mothers recanting, like the fear and the superstition had become a permanent resident in my mothers gut.
Many superstitions seem to be born in you, while others seem to creep in throughout our day-to-day existence. Seriously, I still don’t get the salt thing, but I do it anyway, consistently mixing up the correct shoulder, closing my eyes and tossing in blind faith. “Just to be safe,” I say. I knock on wood, break legs, hold my breath, and never tell what I wish for.
I often wish people didn’t throw out their Christmas trees before New Years. Whenever I see a sad, lonely tree sparsely covered in tinsel, lying on its side next to the trash before the New Year has sprung, I ask myself why this person is in such a rush, and remind myself it would be bad luck to do the same.
One year when we were living in Houston, my mother didn’t take the tree down until July. I swear, I had begged as a little girl before Christmas to buy one of those “pretty trees covered with snow.” “A flocked tree” my mother would later say as we would retell the story to skeptics later on. Since the tree was flocked and in an air-conditioned house it did quite well. After Christmas mom decorated it for Valentines Day, replacing each ornament with a heart-shaped red doily, clovers for St. Patrick’s day, eggs for Easter, and American and Norwegian flags for Independence day. I remember thinking it was strange at the time, and would act embarrassed when my friends came over it saw it, but I loved it. I would sit at the top of our stairs, my elbows resting on my knees, starting in awe at the tree for six months. The house was naked when it was gone.
I look back now on this happy memory of my childhood remembering what it felt like to have the tree in the house and realize how my Christmas tree superstition was born. I carry this one and those of generations before, sharing with so many others in performing rituals, “just to be safe”, despite the fact that we have lost track of their origin. Reason and rationale just don’t seem to exist when it comes to this. It is in the whispers of those that came before us and resonates in the gut.
17-May-2007
They are called Squirrel Monkeys according to the plaque next to the exhibit, and you would regret having them for a pet the sign warns. Behind the glass Squirrel Monkeys jump from limb to limb, actively playing and searching for food. The monkeys and the primate house in general are always one of the best exhibits at the Philadelphia Zoo. It must be a season for babies, because among all the pregnant women walking around at the zoo, and the young couples pushing strollers, mother Squirrel Monkeys carry their young on their backs as they carefully maneuver from limb to limb. The other young that are old enough to be separate from mom rapidly move from limb to limb, playfully chasing each other, and using each others long tails to swing from.
“Aww they are so cute” everyone says as we watch with growing fascination. They are tiny little creatures, with mostly grey bodies, yellowish arms, and adorable little white faces. As I stand there watching, a zoo volunteer pulls out a compact mirror from her pocket and holds it to the glass. Her name is Dorothy, according to her nametag, a zoo volunteer, and while holding up the mirror, one of the wild young comes over to check it out. Immediately the monkey is looking at himself in the mirror and a crowd gathers around to listen to Dorothy talk about the primates at the zoo. I listen to her voice, a little shaky given her age, (she must be seventy or so), but soothing, and I become entranced watching the monkeys and listening to Dorothy tell us things about life at the zoo that are not to be found on any exhibit plaque.
I must have been so engrossed in listening to the soft hum of her voice, and then imagining my own stories while staring at the lively group of monkeys, that I didn’t realize the crowd had dispersed and Dorothy was gone. I walked around the rest of the primate house, checking out the orangutans, and looking at the silverback gorillas thinking of the Gorilla’s in the Mist, waiting to here Sigourney Weaver’s voice. Instantly, I am in a misty jungle in my mind, but I can’t even remember what that movie was about, or what was so significant or controversial.
Out of the corner of my eye I spot Dorothy again, in her green shirt and tan vest and pants, the kind you might wear on Safari. She is so cute, I think to myself, and I wonder how often she volunteers, is she lonely, did her husband die, does she have grandchildren, and do her grandchildren listen to her when she talks? With each question I fire at her about the gorillas, I am imagining several more about her in my mind. “The female gorilla is coddling her young boy” she says. “She is so overprotective, you know female’s nurse for four or five years.” Wow, I think to myself, that sounds painful. I ask how long gorillas live, and listen and think as she tells me about the history of the Philadelphia Zoo’s gorillas. The male silverback is outside, but anxiously trying to get back in, pacing back in forth. “He hates it out there, he is scared,” she tells me “the male silverback grew up in a confined space before arriving at the zoo, and he’s unsettled outside.” Inside, the mother and her young son stay up on a platform. Dorothy explains that the mother and son are new to the zoo and kept in a separate area from the silverback. “They need to get used to each other’s smell, it takes a long time to integrate them.”
“Oh yes, we once had a female that came to the zoo after growing up in a man’s apartment, he even dressed her in clothes and fed her at the table.” “Really”, my eyes widen, I love this stuff, I travel to an imaginary Philadelphia apartment where a strange man has dressed the female in a bonnet, and feeds her cookies as she drinks from tea cups. “Yes, sadly she wouldn’t interact with the others, she just couldn’t relate.” Apparently they tried to bring in a handsome, virile silverback from another zoo, but she wouldn’t have any apart of him. Aww, she missed her strange apartment man. “Eventually she was transferred to another place.” I wonder what that means; where in the world would a bonnet wearing, tea cup drinking gorilla fit in?
They are called Squirrel Monkeys according to the plaque next to the exhibit, and you would regret having them for a pet the sign warns. Behind the glass Squirrel Monkeys jump from limb to limb, actively playing and searching for food. The monkeys and the primate house in general are always one of the best exhibits at the Philadelphia Zoo. It must be a season for babies, because among all the pregnant women walking around at the zoo, and the young couples pushing strollers, mother Squirrel Monkeys carry their young on their backs as they carefully maneuver from limb to limb. The other young that are old enough to be separate from mom rapidly move from limb to limb, playfully chasing each other, and using each others long tails to swing from.
“Aww they are so cute” everyone says as we watch with growing fascination. They are tiny little creatures, with mostly grey bodies, yellowish arms, and adorable little white faces. As I stand there watching, a zoo volunteer pulls out a compact mirror from her pocket and holds it to the glass. Her name is Dorothy, according to her nametag, a zoo volunteer, and while holding up the mirror, one of the wild young comes over to check it out. Immediately the monkey is looking at himself in the mirror and a crowd gathers around to listen to Dorothy talk about the primates at the zoo. I listen to her voice, a little shaky given her age, (she must be seventy or so), but soothing, and I become entranced watching the monkeys and listening to Dorothy tell us things about life at the zoo that are not to be found on any exhibit plaque.
I must have been so engrossed in listening to the soft hum of her voice, and then imagining my own stories while staring at the lively group of monkeys, that I didn’t realize the crowd had dispersed and Dorothy was gone. I walked around the rest of the primate house, checking out the orangutans, and looking at the silverback gorillas thinking of the Gorilla’s in the Mist, waiting to here Sigourney Weaver’s voice. Instantly, I am in a misty jungle in my mind, but I can’t even remember what that movie was about, or what was so significant or controversial.
Out of the corner of my eye I spot Dorothy again, in her green shirt and tan vest and pants, the kind you might wear on Safari. She is so cute, I think to myself, and I wonder how often she volunteers, is she lonely, did her husband die, does she have grandchildren, and do her grandchildren listen to her when she talks? With each question I fire at her about the gorillas, I am imagining several more about her in my mind. “The female gorilla is coddling her young boy” she says. “She is so overprotective, you know female’s nurse for four or five years.” Wow, I think to myself, that sounds painful. I ask how long gorillas live, and listen and think as she tells me about the history of the Philadelphia Zoo’s gorillas. The male silverback is outside, but anxiously trying to get back in, pacing back in forth. “He hates it out there, he is scared,” she tells me “the male silverback grew up in a confined space before arriving at the zoo, and he’s unsettled outside.” Inside, the mother and her young son stay up on a platform. Dorothy explains that the mother and son are new to the zoo and kept in a separate area from the silverback. “They need to get used to each other’s smell, it takes a long time to integrate them.”
“Oh yes, we once had a female that came to the zoo after growing up in a man’s apartment, he even dressed her in clothes and fed her at the table.” “Really”, my eyes widen, I love this stuff, I travel to an imaginary Philadelphia apartment where a strange man has dressed the female in a bonnet, and feeds her cookies as she drinks from tea cups. “Yes, sadly she wouldn’t interact with the others, she just couldn’t relate.” Apparently they tried to bring in a handsome, virile silverback from another zoo, but she wouldn’t have any apart of him. Aww, she missed her strange apartment man. “Eventually she was transferred to another place.” I wonder what that means; where in the world would a bonnet wearing, tea cup drinking gorilla fit in?
24-May-2007
Within the weeks before my mother passed I busied myself with lists. Lists of recipes I knew I wanted, lists of questions not yet asked, things to locate, and so many things to say before it was too late. Of course there wasn’t enough time to cover them all, much less time than anyone thought. What I miss the most now are the daily conversations about small things, like how I could never seem to remember how long I had to put a roast in and at what temperature. It was just so easy to call mom.
The list of questions ranged from what is your favorite song to, if you were still here when I got married, what would you say to me just before I walked down the aisle? She was supposed to have walked me down the aisle. I wasn’t the only one thinking of questions. Although it was usually not a problem for me, I enlisted the help of all my friends. One of the many questions was what my mother’s plans where for her farewell.
“I don’t want a funeral,” she said. This is something we did not agree on.
“Mom” I exclaimed, in a half sigh and whine, a mono-syllabic word I had turned to three. I said it in the way I had so many times before. The word had turned into an unspoken dialogue that said, come on, let’s do it my way, when she told me no short shorts to the mall, no calling boys, and no riding in my friend Sandy’s jeep. Probably uttered a thousand times before, I thought her presence was permanent and we would have forever to disagree.
“How can I be left here to explain to the rest of your family, to your own brother?”
Not only did she not want to see anyone during her last living days, but she also would refuse to give them the closure a traditional wake was supposed to provide.
“I just want them to remember the way I was Jessica, it is bad enough you have to see me this way, you can’t even look at me.”
It was true. It was so difficult to see my mother the way she looked that I had started wearing sunglasses inside to dim the reality. Each time I entered the house, I would take a deep breath and try to shield myself from what was inevitably inside.
I would sit there in a chair next to her bed, but my mind couldn’t wrap itself around the reality. I remembered long car rides to my grandparent’s house in Whiting down Rt. 539, I was a teen and the distance between us was amplified by the silence as we each looked down the road ahead lost in our own thoughts.
On occasion the silence was broken when we agreed on the Don McLean song on the radio, or when I asked her questions about her past, and she would tell me about growing up in Brooklyn, or after many years when we acknowledged together how strange it was to visit my grandparent’s house without my grandfather.
Sometimes I would sit there in the car with the sun hitting my face, staring at the passing farmland, smiling to myself, thinking of how much I loved the woman behind the wheel, though I was too scared to tell her. I knew she knew. I remember on one car trip I confessed to her shakily that I was mean to her when she was sick. I was thirteen when she was first diagnosed with breast cancer. My brother had moved to Texas to live with my father, and she was all I had and failing me. I was resentful that I had to keep it a secret from my brother, for fear my father would try to take me away. Though it was ok for her to tell all my school teachers and my guidance counselor, soon the other kids knew and I was mortified that I was different. I was in high school at the time ready to move onto college, and she had been cancer free for five years, and I was just now admitting, “I was so scared”, “I know honey, I knew then.” She turned to look at my glassy red eyes and gave me that look that said I love you forever no matter what. She knew I did what I had to, in order to cope I had tried to push her away and fight with her then the way I did now about the funeral.
What my mother wanted was to live out the rest of her days on her own terms and to be remembered the way she wanted. She had always hated funerals. I remember when I was a little girl she made me wear a red dress to someone’s funeral. I was eight and I distinctly remember saying “Mom, isn’t it bad to wear red to a funeral?” She told me that was old-fashioned thinking. When we were at the funeral home later that day, the minister commented on our bright colors, as I was wearing bright red and my mother a very bright royal blue. She said “I love these bright and strong colors.” Immediately I realized my red was much brighter than her blue, and my red dress must have been the planned decoy.
“I want to be cremated right away.”
“Then I want to go on the carousel in Central Park and have lunch at Tavern on the Green, with you Spencer, and Dorathea”
It was decided; the four of us would go to New York together, but of course I couldn’t let her off the hook so easily. I told her “I will whisper in an unsuspecting young carousel rider’s ear that I have a dead lady in my bag.” She just shook her head and we laughed through the tears.
Within the weeks before my mother passed I busied myself with lists. Lists of recipes I knew I wanted, lists of questions not yet asked, things to locate, and so many things to say before it was too late. Of course there wasn’t enough time to cover them all, much less time than anyone thought. What I miss the most now are the daily conversations about small things, like how I could never seem to remember how long I had to put a roast in and at what temperature. It was just so easy to call mom.
The list of questions ranged from what is your favorite song to, if you were still here when I got married, what would you say to me just before I walked down the aisle? She was supposed to have walked me down the aisle. I wasn’t the only one thinking of questions. Although it was usually not a problem for me, I enlisted the help of all my friends. One of the many questions was what my mother’s plans where for her farewell.
“I don’t want a funeral,” she said. This is something we did not agree on.
“Mom” I exclaimed, in a half sigh and whine, a mono-syllabic word I had turned to three. I said it in the way I had so many times before. The word had turned into an unspoken dialogue that said, come on, let’s do it my way, when she told me no short shorts to the mall, no calling boys, and no riding in my friend Sandy’s jeep. Probably uttered a thousand times before, I thought her presence was permanent and we would have forever to disagree.
“How can I be left here to explain to the rest of your family, to your own brother?”
Not only did she not want to see anyone during her last living days, but she also would refuse to give them the closure a traditional wake was supposed to provide.
“I just want them to remember the way I was Jessica, it is bad enough you have to see me this way, you can’t even look at me.”
It was true. It was so difficult to see my mother the way she looked that I had started wearing sunglasses inside to dim the reality. Each time I entered the house, I would take a deep breath and try to shield myself from what was inevitably inside.
I would sit there in a chair next to her bed, but my mind couldn’t wrap itself around the reality. I remembered long car rides to my grandparent’s house in Whiting down Rt. 539, I was a teen and the distance between us was amplified by the silence as we each looked down the road ahead lost in our own thoughts.
On occasion the silence was broken when we agreed on the Don McLean song on the radio, or when I asked her questions about her past, and she would tell me about growing up in Brooklyn, or after many years when we acknowledged together how strange it was to visit my grandparent’s house without my grandfather.
Sometimes I would sit there in the car with the sun hitting my face, staring at the passing farmland, smiling to myself, thinking of how much I loved the woman behind the wheel, though I was too scared to tell her. I knew she knew. I remember on one car trip I confessed to her shakily that I was mean to her when she was sick. I was thirteen when she was first diagnosed with breast cancer. My brother had moved to Texas to live with my father, and she was all I had and failing me. I was resentful that I had to keep it a secret from my brother, for fear my father would try to take me away. Though it was ok for her to tell all my school teachers and my guidance counselor, soon the other kids knew and I was mortified that I was different. I was in high school at the time ready to move onto college, and she had been cancer free for five years, and I was just now admitting, “I was so scared”, “I know honey, I knew then.” She turned to look at my glassy red eyes and gave me that look that said I love you forever no matter what. She knew I did what I had to, in order to cope I had tried to push her away and fight with her then the way I did now about the funeral.
What my mother wanted was to live out the rest of her days on her own terms and to be remembered the way she wanted. She had always hated funerals. I remember when I was a little girl she made me wear a red dress to someone’s funeral. I was eight and I distinctly remember saying “Mom, isn’t it bad to wear red to a funeral?” She told me that was old-fashioned thinking. When we were at the funeral home later that day, the minister commented on our bright colors, as I was wearing bright red and my mother a very bright royal blue. She said “I love these bright and strong colors.” Immediately I realized my red was much brighter than her blue, and my red dress must have been the planned decoy.
“I want to be cremated right away.”
“Then I want to go on the carousel in Central Park and have lunch at Tavern on the Green, with you Spencer, and Dorathea”
It was decided; the four of us would go to New York together, but of course I couldn’t let her off the hook so easily. I told her “I will whisper in an unsuspecting young carousel rider’s ear that I have a dead lady in my bag.” She just shook her head and we laughed through the tears.
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