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Today is my mother's birthday. I was going to send a card out earlier this week, but I forgot. My father's birthday is Sunday, so I might just call them tomorrow and leave a message for them both. Or not. I might send belated cards. I reserve all my rights.
Today I was trying to think of stories. Not even necessarily something to write, but something to remember, to trace in my memory. And what I remember most about spending time with my mother was our ability to be quiet together. I could spend hours and hours with her, and I would talk, could say whatever random thing popped in my mind, about a song on the radio or what laws should be passed or which friend is annoying me or what my opinion on God was. Or I could say nothing and it never felt bad. With my father, when I think of being fifteen, I think of how suffocating and upsetting the silence would feel, the discomfort emanating from us both, I think. I think about how I am like this now. How some people, there is a certain chemistry of comfort, and I do not feel obliged to talk, it doesn't worry or concern me. But with others, I am always aware of the gaps. And it is strange that this gift of appreciation of quiet also comes with a lesson in the burden of silence. Two sides to every act, both powerful.
Last week I was thinking about how in 7 years, I have spoken with her exactly 3 times: after coming out about transitioning (mostly crying); the day after she had her gall bladder removed (she was loopy on drugs); the day my grandmother died (she was in mild shock). This afternoon, in the shower before work, I was thinking about how she is turning 60 today. And how she is this woman I don't know. She is a kind, gentle woman, I'm sure still, and I have great empathy for her and her paralysis in not knowing what to do with her pain and loss. But she is not my mother anymore, not like before. That person is gone, and last week, I had lots of moments of intense grief mourning that and remembering her. It was strange and unexpected, when the feeling hits, its so specific to loss and most likely loss that comes with a death, or a sudden clearcut ending of a big relationship, and I watched the sensations come and go and didn't fight it and didn't really talk about it, I just did whatever I needed to do in the moment and it never felt like too much. This week has been less so, at least until today, when I watched the end of The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill after lunch and wept during the entirety of the last 15 minutes. Although, that isht was tender, I don't think it was solely just me and my state of mind and heart.
I suppose that just like her daughter is gone and there's this new man here, there is also a mother woman still there and I do care for her and so I will send that card. It is what I want to do, and it feels sort of strange, to engage as if there are two selves for each of us, but I suppose if it is working better for me, I'll go with it.
Today I was trying to think of stories. Not even necessarily something to write, but something to remember, to trace in my memory. And what I remember most about spending time with my mother was our ability to be quiet together. I could spend hours and hours with her, and I would talk, could say whatever random thing popped in my mind, about a song on the radio or what laws should be passed or which friend is annoying me or what my opinion on God was. Or I could say nothing and it never felt bad. With my father, when I think of being fifteen, I think of how suffocating and upsetting the silence would feel, the discomfort emanating from us both, I think. I think about how I am like this now. How some people, there is a certain chemistry of comfort, and I do not feel obliged to talk, it doesn't worry or concern me. But with others, I am always aware of the gaps. And it is strange that this gift of appreciation of quiet also comes with a lesson in the burden of silence. Two sides to every act, both powerful.
Last week I was thinking about how in 7 years, I have spoken with her exactly 3 times: after coming out about transitioning (mostly crying); the day after she had her gall bladder removed (she was loopy on drugs); the day my grandmother died (she was in mild shock). This afternoon, in the shower before work, I was thinking about how she is turning 60 today. And how she is this woman I don't know. She is a kind, gentle woman, I'm sure still, and I have great empathy for her and her paralysis in not knowing what to do with her pain and loss. But she is not my mother anymore, not like before. That person is gone, and last week, I had lots of moments of intense grief mourning that and remembering her. It was strange and unexpected, when the feeling hits, its so specific to loss and most likely loss that comes with a death, or a sudden clearcut ending of a big relationship, and I watched the sensations come and go and didn't fight it and didn't really talk about it, I just did whatever I needed to do in the moment and it never felt like too much. This week has been less so, at least until today, when I watched the end of The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill after lunch and wept during the entirety of the last 15 minutes. Although, that isht was tender, I don't think it was solely just me and my state of mind and heart.
I suppose that just like her daughter is gone and there's this new man here, there is also a mother woman still there and I do care for her and so I will send that card. It is what I want to do, and it feels sort of strange, to engage as if there are two selves for each of us, but I suppose if it is working better for me, I'll go with it.
