My mother’s birthday was about ten days ago or so. Or rather, it would have been her birthday. I celebrated it quietly in my head and heart. I steeled myself for a few minutes during the day to wish her a grand day. I didn’t get a chance to buy her a little Debbie’s donut stick. She loved that as a treat with her black coffee. Back then I didn’t drink coffee so I didn’t join her in her coffee and donut snack. Now, I drink a lot of coffee. Although I do so with creamer, syrup, and sugar.
I miss my mom. Although, I would call her mother. I liked the formality and regal sense to it. I don’t know whether she ever got that connotation. Yesterday, while on the subway I looked down the car and saw someone who reminded me of a friend who passed away recently. She was about 20 years older than me. I was saddened that I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye. She had died of a massive stroke similar to my mother. Other than that, my friend was in no way similar to my mother. But I was nonetheless reminded of my mother. I say so affectionately.
This morning I was startled awake. I had been having a vivid dream. I was walking a dog who escaped me and I turned to my mother (the way actors did in neo-realism films) and I let her know that I was tired. I was startled awake by such a declaration. It is unlike me to declare so forcefully my exhaustion. What was I complaining about? I don’t necessarily have that insight. However, I want let mother know I’m not tired of doing the right things. I will always be a fighter. And, so will my son.
I could be tired of all my moves. I have moved five times in a year. I want to settle down. Be put. Have roots. Although, as a New Yorker I have always felt rooted regardless how many cities in which I have lived. Growing up a New Yorker I will always be a New Yorker. My mom had wanted to pass away in New York. It didn’t happen. But she’s now with me here. And, I will never tire of carrying her with me.