Today my mother would have turned 80 years old.
Now, I just see her in my face, looking back at me looking at her. Now that I’ve cut my hair short, the strong curve of the cheekbones, set of the eyes and prominent arc of the nose remind me even more of her.
And this is good. Because, as much as I hate to admit it, grief turns into vague recollection, which eventually fades into forgetting, which always ends in gut-sinking guilt.
The days when I could barely breath because the loss was sitting on my chest are almost nonexistent. Some days I don’t even think about her.
Isn’t that terrible?
I don’t know. Maybe it’s a crime against the mother-daughter bond. Maybe it’s natural. (Maybe it’s Maybelline, which was her eyebrow pencil of choice, burnt with a cigarette lighter of course.)
Maybe I’m too busy becoming her. More and more I’m finding my voice, not rolling over and taking it. More and more, I’m thinking about the art of storytelling, which was her specialty. But in a way that her stories are now becoming my own stories. (Isn’t that weird and beautiful, the way a narrative blurs time and people and place? In stories, we are all one.) More and more, I find myself making her food. (Though, sorry Mom, I have perfected your deviled eggs with the secret ingredient of pickle juice! You would have loved them.)
On this day, or during this month, we would have celebrated by going to the casino, all the sisters and her.
I miss that.
Mom’s last trip to the casino
So today I’m going to do my own betting, if you will.
Here are 5 things I bet my Mom would have said, between long draws of Salems, were she alive during this crazy and historical pandemic.
- How’s the weather?
- Do you have enough groceries? Aldi had butter on sale and so I stocked up. I had to drive all the way to the one in Indiana, but it was worth it because the gas was so cheap. So I filled up. Yes suree.
- Have you seen the news?
- Don’t you leave your house now, you hear me?
- CAN YOU BELIEVE THE GAS PRICES? <insert Southern-twang-gasp>
