Tuesday, March 17, 2015

the one I love the most

My mom dies slowly, of something cruel and unfair. We don't know of a family history of this particular disease, although we do know of epilepsy, heart disease, high blood pressure, alcohol addiction, and stupidity.

Since moving from my home in Texas to an Oklahoman hotel there to a friend's trailer, to a house of my own, and then back to Texas again to a friend's couch - all in 6 months, I've thought a lot about the things we gather; and about what we carry when we can. I have things stuffed in containers in two states; pictures, books (not nearly as many as I did before), CDs, china, furniture, my mom's art. Things of little value to strangers, which tell the story of what matters to me.

My most valuable possessions live in my purse now: two necklaces and a picture of my mom. One necklace was a gift from her on Valentine's Day. It is delicate and feminine, and far too pretty for me to wear often. The other belongs to my mother, given to her by a visitor. It is cheap and clunky; the pieces having slid off the chain and been slid back on. There is a random, red stone, broken which requires repair. I keep meaning to fix the whole thing and return it to her, but she fears someone will steal it. 

So I treasure it. 

And here is the picture:




It's of Mom and me in the London Eye, the year after 9/11. We'd gotten tickets for crazy cheap, and spent a week there. I don't remember the name of the photographer, only that they were a cute couple from Germany. Our hotel was within walking distance of the Underground, and the weather was amazing. It rained every night, and each morning the world looked fresh washed and lush with possibilities.

We didn't rent a car, but walked everywhere. We looked at portraits in the Royal Gallery, caught a Bollywood exhibit at the Victoria & Albert Museum. Mom offered her chili recipe to a cook who thought chili started with stew meat and who was completely baffled by the idea of a burger with chili and cheese on it. 

Meandering through a Salvador Dali exhibit at a nearby Underground stop, we heard about the Royal family's wedding dress collection at Kensington Palace. We toured through, after scarring the right and proper ladies having high tea at The Orangery with our sweaty, horrific American tourist clothes and manners. The soul of the Old City floated on the air, and the energy fizzed like the first day of school. We  had so much fun; it felt like an entirely different world, one which fit even better than home.

This is the mom I miss the most.

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