I’ve been in a funk the last couple of days, for no apparent reason. I had been in a great space the week before, Mercury has finally gone direct…I assumed it was just my ususal low contrasting my previous high. Until yesterday.
I arrived at work, already feeling a little low, slightly off, a touch touchy. I unpacked my laptop, set up my workspace, sat down, and turned the ringer off my personal phone when I saw it.
A reminder that today is the day my mom died in 2010.
I’m not sure how I feel about being reminded by an alert on my phone the day before. Is it a “good” thing that it’s not at the top of my mind? “Should” I feel guilty that I wasn’t thinking of it, of her?
Actually, I can’t say I haven’t been thinking of her, because I have. I have dreamt of her a lot recently, and I see her all the time in hummingbirds and rainbows and the little lizards that sun themselves on the walkways at work.
I see her in myself – my hands, my off-color humor, and when I embrarass my children by dancing in the kitchen.
My mom loved to dance. Superfreak by Rick James always got her up and moving. So did Prince, especially 1999.
She was easy to cry and even easier to laugh. She was passionate and a died in the wool liberal – she hated injustice and was a strong union leader, even marching with Cèsar Chavez.
I grew up reading Ms. magazine and Our Bodies, Ourselves. She fought the principal when I got in trouble in 6th grade for reading – and then sharing – the book Forever by Judy Blume.
She hated the Dodgers and Howard Cosell. She loved tequila and chocolate mousse and the smell of sweet peas. She liked to play scrabble and backgammon and read.
Whenever I smell Shalimar I am transported to childhood, with my head on her lap as she and my step-dad and their friends carry on laughing and drinking into the night.
Eight years. Every cell in my body is different than it was eight years ago. So much has changed in eight years.
I left my marriage. Donated a kidney to her other daughter.
My kids have grown – how she would love Maya’s fiestiness and goofy nature and Tosh’s brilliance and sweetness.
She would be sad to see that I am not as close with my sister or step-dad as I once was. She would adore my new sweetie. She would have consoled me when Dee died. She would have knitted herself a pink pussy hat and marched.
She would have been right there with me at my Studio 50 50th birthday party and she would only be 69 herself.
So, yeah, now I understand why I have been a little grumpy, a little sad, a little “off” for the last few days.
I miss my momma.