A snob for artisanal french presses, cold brews, and lattes, I’d give anything for another cup of her International House of Coffee (quintessential boughetto), Maxwell House or Sanka, boiled on the stovetop in the small metal pot that despite needing a new handle or screw, never broke off. For lean chicken cutlets and pork chops made specially for me because of my hatred of fatty meats. As another commercial Mother’s Day approaches, I’m in my odd-year avoidant tentativeness on the verge of tears. Ok lies… I cried for the last three weeks almost daily. Maybe it’s the mid-30s tick tick of my feminine clock that compels me to coo at every baby and wish they were my own, especially when I consider she had far less capital and opportunity than me at this age, yet held us down and provided me with what she couldn’t attain herself. Or perhaps it’s the beautifully complex upheaval in my career right now that has me considering where to carve a new trail, though without breadcrumbs since there will never be any going back. At 36 I desparately miss my Mommy.
It’s finally the time where I’m less of an anomaly because my friends and colleagues are losing their parents too or watching them fade into illness. Of course I provide the frequent anecdote and inspirational quote to empathize with them and assure them that they’re not alone. Other times I just disappear out of habit because I know it’s a rite of passage for us all and that there’s nothing perfect to offer. But as I watch myself in mirrors, brush these grays, hear myself sing Aretha’s “Ain’t No Way” where she would take the soprano part, or feel myself grimacing or chuckling like her, I’m reminded of her mortal absence and sometimes it aches in my core. I wish to be irritated once more on an erratic day by her casual advice or “Jesus got it, baby” simplicity as I down Apple Jacks cereal, read Archies, or plan the next date with some man. I wish she could’ve met the women I ran through in my 20s or that I took too seriously as I cyclically found and ran from myself before marrying my lover and friend. Oh, she would love my wife even if she lowkey thought we might go to hell. How I wish she could’ve met this out and grown Meeka, not just the young, tomboyish, boy crazy, feisty church girl that she secretly had to tell my dad would never wear purses, so he’d give me money on selective Christmas and birthdays instead.
Though there’s so much palpable pain in this lifetime of grief at inopportune moments, I know that half the shit I’ve conquered couldn’t have been fathomable had I not been made strong enough through her death. Sometimes I think Mommy dying was the hardest thing I’ll ever experience and that everything else pales. Then I’m curious as to whether it was only the primer for the next major hardship, and if so, well damn. Whatever the case, I remember what she cultivated in me, both intentionally and indirectly, and I’m grateful to be so present with the range of feelings, even the yucky ones on this wack ass holiday for capitalist gain. Indeed, it is Mother’s Day EVERYDAY. At least I don’t have to clutch tightly to my chest the stories, coffee, sweet smells, gospel mornings, or her smile for fear of them fading because memory serves its purpose. I miss her and I am her, so recognize the greatness of Linda when you meet me.