I suppose, since my mama left on Saturday, I haven't much felt like writing. My mom seemed to bring with her a kind of mojo, an urge for creativity in writing that seems to somehow have left me, I think temporarily. I realized that even though I traveled 3,000 miles away in search of a different life outside of my family, that this inevitably meant a disconnect from almost all that I've known my entire life. Prior to my mom's arrival, my dear grandmother, Dot, passed away. A woman who's life undoubtedly shaped my being. Idiosyncratically, my grandmother taught me the advantages of pushing the envelope. Ironically, my grandmother was at first sight a conservative, Christian woman. However, I remember so much more; trips to the local nursing homes (her notorious Willy Nelson puppet in hand) bringing cheer to the men and women who could not seek out their own happiness anymore, that her favorite day was April Fool's Day with Halloween coming in a close second, her jello, buying my dad the same purple shirt two years in a row, her fascination with anatomically correct human toys, and how dolls made her melt. I recall that was one of very few things that calmed her in the nursing home...her baby doll. I do not question my love of babies. It came from my grandmother.
When I learned of her passing, in the early morning hours of February 13, I was devastated. I felt as though a part of my childhood was gone. However, my mom reminded me that the loss was bigger, larger than that. She had lost her mother. My mom sounded hopeless and crushed. It was heartbreaking. It then struck me that if there is one way to provide my mother with the hope of regeneration, it was to invite her more vigorously on her journey to assist me in my own recovery. She arrived in SF, tired and worn. She just lost her sister and I, my aunt, about two months previously. I was so nervous that my embrace would not be enough to give her breath, help her walk, help her live. That very afternoon, my mom closed that casket on the woman who gave her life.
I sat in the car anxiously watching and listening to my Mom's every move, word. She seemed to breathe. That gave me hope.
My mom was overjoyed with my new space in the city, which she had never seen. It cited the room that I needed to make my own life better and lively. It had space.
While in my room, she presented me the sea glass from my grandmother's funeral. With the crash of each wave and the friction with sand, each piece of rock becomes a sparkling, wonderful gem. They passed these around at her funeral.
She then presented me with the beautiful ring that my grandmother left me. It seemed to fit perfectly. I don't plan to take it off. I was often intrigued by my grandmother's hands. I began to stare at them when she was alive, thinking about everything that they've done. My mother paid homage to her hands in her eulogy. She read to me what she said and stated how proud she was of her mother,looking so beautiful finally resting, surrendering. What my mother did not know was my pride in her.
The day that my mom left, we (well I decided) that we should go jean shopping. Yuck. Before we left the house, I became engrossed in the Julia Child special on some public access channel. It seems like they all are public access when you have basic cable. Whatever. This woman (Julia) is unreal.
But then again, so is my mom. And my Grandmother. And my Aunt...
Much love and butter,
E.B.
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