Last Friday, Good Friday, was my mom’s birthday.
She is gone. She made the mistake of dying years ahead of her expected lifespan, leaving me once we’d become friends and not before we’d exhausted our adventures.
I love my mom. I loved my mom. I hated my mom, too, but the hate is like a stain left on the sidewalk by a partially decayed leaf. If I keep scrubbing it, there may come a day where no unwanted mark remains.
When I was young, there was good reason to hate her, it seemed.
One of her favorite stories was of happening upon me in the backyard plucking petals from a flower and saying (instead of he loves me, he loves me not):
“I hate Mommy more than bugs.”
(pluck a petal)
“I hate Mommy more than vomiting.”
(pluck another)
“I hate Mommy more than spinach.”
What I love about this story is that it was so “US” and we knew it. Mom bore a strong resemblance to Morticia from the Addams Family or to some character from an Edward Gorey cartoon. Like many parents, she was somewhat preoccupied.
She had a marvelous piece of costume jewelry–a brass ring–whose faux amber stone flipped up to reveal a chamber suitable for holding a soporific or a poison.
It makes me laugh when I look back on it now. Every night I would poke my fork into dinner, having carefully pushed the vegetables to the side, and ask, “What IS this?” and she would always reply, “It’s poison. Now eat.”
When she first came home from the hospital after her initial cancer surgery, I would bring her soup and she’d ask, “What is this?” Naturally, I replied, “It’s poison. Now eat.” She would give me a snide look and we’d laugh until she said I was making her stitches hurt.
She was too young when I was a child, and I was too big a brat for someone so young. We loved each other in our own convoluted way, there beneath the firmament of Edward Gorey’s stormy skies, absorbed in his Gashlycrumb Tinies (an abecedarian in which each of the twenty-six children succumbs to an untimely death) and I would laugh and squirm at the twisted wickedness of that book, anxiety mounting as she read each name on the way to the letter “T” and played out the excitement, knowing my secret dread, that the letter “T” (which once stood for Titus) had changed to Tonia sometime in the night, that she would then jump up…
…and strangle me
…or stuff me in her old shipping trunk
…or chase me until my heart burst.
It was delicious fear working out how I’d survive her.
I didn’t know when I was young that she read because she loved reading. She read to us every day, multiple times each day, partly because reading, like music, does soothe savage beasts, but also to keep her sanity. Reading was all the knowledge of the world–arcane and commonplace–and full of veiled warnings of coming harms. It was clear to me she intended me to know that adults are dangerous, that even good parents become werewolves by the light of certain moons.
In case your mother didn’t read them to you, in case you need the dark thrill of something far, far from Dick and Jane, click this link and you can hear the Gashlycrumb Tinies as read to you for your delight.
Your mam sounds like a great woman. I’d say you had great craic altogether. So sad that you didn’t get to spend more time together. Great that you knew each others sense of humour so well
Dublinhousewife, she was mad about Dublin. Please say hello to it for me.
I will indeed. Glorious sunshine here today. Dublin can be Heaven 😊
There is a lot I can relate to in this book. Not the story in the video though.
Crystal, it is a dark, dark tale. Thanks for reading and for commenting.
Your petal plucking story made me laugh. It reminds me of the time I found a note sticky taped to the back of my seven year old daughter’s bedroom door which read “Dear Government, my parents are mean.” I still have it 21 years later.
Carol, that’s hilarious. Did your daughter think it was funny too? I’m dying. Thanks for reading and commenting too.
She wasn’t amused at the time but it’s a great family story these days.
I loved your E post, but this…this… And for the record, I adore Edward Gorey. I did not grow up with his art, but I’m a fierce fan. Let’s get as far from Dick and Jane as possible. Hahaha!
I am playing catch-up. How did I miss this? And why am I smiling, even though the tale you tell is dark? Because that’s what healing does. I’m so glad that you and your mom became friends and could laugh together. How much you did not miss.
Laura, thanks for getting it. I miss her so much. Thanks for commenting too.
Tonia,
I liked all the unexpected details that you added here — the sidewalk stain, the flowers with the petals, and of course, the book. Excellent visuals (with the illustrations) I’d never heard of this author before so listening to it read helped me to understand your references. What I like about your writing is the utter honesty and showing the reader that your relationship has transcended that time period. The how and the when doesn’t matter. it’s the WHAT that you have both have seen fit to focus on. 😀
Amy
Oh, i forgot the grief part! That was your point and how you tied it all together…with the birthday, and grief. Funny how when we have our loved one with us, birthdays sometimes sneak up on us but then, later, when someone is gone, they trumpet their arrival (days in advance) and we can’t miss it if we tried!
Amy
What a moving post. I love the humour you shared with your mother – it reminded me of mine. I’m fortunate to still have mine with me and I was the cancer patient. Whilst driving me home after treatment (she’s a terrible driver), I told her I’d better drive as she was either going to scare me to death, or kill us both in a crash. She barely missed a beat and just said: at least the cancer won’t get you! It still makes me chuckle today. I am so sorry for your grief and your loss, but I enjoyed so much reading about your shared love.