When my mother died I wasn’t there. I wasn’t that worried though because I
expected to see her that evening, in the form of a ghost, of course. I was staying at my house, her house,
and so she knew where to find me.
We had a lot to catch up on, and she would want to say goodbye and I
would want to say goodbye, and finally we could have some privacy. It had been a long, surreal day,
finding out that your mother has died while you were living across the country,
taking photos with your Pentax 35mm camera for photography class on a sunny San
Francisco day; yes, she has been dying but I didn’t see it that way, and yet,
as much as I hate to admit it, I had already started to forget about her. It seemed she was no longer human, an
exhibit at the hospital that would always be there. My brother called me while Jaime was driving me to the
airport, and immediately, I knew could never articulate or have a connection to
this loss. It would never be
mine. It was like playing
parachute in elementary school gym class.
Everyone’s hands gripping the rainbow parachute, forming an unbreakable
circle, and when the hands go up, everyone’s hands are pulled up and stay
there, uncomfortably. You hold up
the parachute, fluttering, hesitant and strong at the same time, and lose the
ability to form an opinion while you decide if you will go under and sit in the
epicenter of it all, awaiting the slow colorful group hug in the form of a duck
and cover exercise.
I wasn’t ready to be the grieving daughter and felt bad for
my friends who were feeling bad for me and felt guilty for my aunts who watched
her die and were there and who loved her in a way that I did not. I spent the hours with all of them and
went home, got in bed, and expected mom to come immediately and talk to
me. She did not, and I was
surprised and offended. I
patiently waited night after night, and the weeks went by. Why did I think she would come? It
wasn’t because I had seen ghosts, or believed in God, or even believed in
ghosts per se. My mother died
without us talking about it at all, and we were very close, and it just seemed
guaranteed that I deserved that opportunity. She was unable to speak for the last six months of her life
so we couldn’t speak on the phone.
That was a big adjustment since we used to talk every few days and I
lived far away. I still, nine
years later, forget that I can’t phone her. I’ve written about it, how all I want is to be able to call
her on the phone, how ingrained is the idea to call your mother. I
thought the ghost appearance would be like a hologramic phone call. This never happened and I never got to
say goodbye. Looking back, I
regret it wholly that I did not move back home for those last few months. If I had, then after it was all over, I
would have gone back home, to San Francisco, and I would have stayed. My life would be different now. Like Darwin different. Instead, I
stayed in San Francisco and then, missing her death, decided to move back home,
to her home, to Utica, NY. I lived
in her house and slept in her bedroom and watched her TV for six months. She didn’t visit me then, either.
I don’t reminisce about her with anyone. It’s taken me years to understand why
this is, and it is because my best memories with her were near the end, the
last few years, when we were alone together. When we were in love with each other, when she looked to me
as her best friend, when she would be her private self and talk about her
feelings. When I really listened
to her and felt bad for her for the many wrongs in her life, when I felt
special that she thought of me this way. It wasn’t until the last few years
that we found this stride. I felt so bad that I was only home for two weeks,
every six months, for years, but I had to. I felt guilty and sad everytime I left her and flew back to
my own life. I am so much more
like her now than I ever dreamed I would be. Always playing a role, always reserved, but not so it was
obvious, always more of a listener, valuing privacy and image above all.
In all my memories of my mother with anyone else - my dad,
my aunts, my friends, her co-workers, I am playing the part someone expects me
to play. No one knew her like I
did, and no one realizes they didn’t know her like I did, and there is the
problem. The empty void, for me,
is twofold. For all these reasons,
I cannot believe she did not come.
Is death really that final and instantaneous? Movies and television, as well as religion have promised
otherwise. I was thinking you got
your one phone call from jail.
Maybe she did and she visited someone else? The truth is, I did have a dream with her just twice. The second was very nice but weird, no
conversation. I woke up crying.
The first was clear and realistic, enough to be like an actual
visit. She was in her pink robe we
buried her in and we were walking home up the hill. All she said to me was, “I miss you less and less”. I choose to discount this as real,
because she wasn’t nice and it wasn’t reassuring.
Mom, come to me in a dream talk to me. It doesn’t have to be weepy and we
don’t have to talk about how dead you are or how I didn’t say goodbye. We can talk about anything, like I can
tell you how many things you were right about and you can gloat all you want. Maybe you’ve been visiting Dana or Ann
or spying on famous people. Maybe
you finally flew over London, maybe you found a penny in the street. I don’t give a fuck, just come
back. I have your sewing basket.


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