Mother nature, mother Earth, mother tongue, the motherland—what goodness the one who knew us first and best.
A time for clinging and a time for breaking away, recalling embrace and no one there to embrace anymore. Chilliness, missingness, wrongseemingness.
‘Member the water cycle: evaporation-precipitation? The tears she shed when I left in 1978 I reused when she left last week, shivering under a shadow blanket on a Delta airplane that, though racing at 550 mph, could never make it on time. No point in even going to the hospital. And, yesterday, in visiting the cemetery I was too early—no marker yet, no ashes. Incurable bad timing, forgiven I know.
Well-accompanied by Dad (stronger than he looks), three tall brothers and a sister who’s really a cousin. And well wishes, many messages of affection—maybe she’s telling me to can it with the invisible man fantasy. People aren’t blind: they saw her; they see me. I am her son. I can do better.
They didn’t all see her as I did though—my only mother (thanks to me), her only son (for a couple years), but they took note despite the quiet and private. I was impressed how good ol’ Ma impressed them so. It’s not the squeaky wheel after all.
I heard less “better place” nonsense, and it angered me less than I expected. Still I am angry Mom can’t just be here like before. Like always, to count on. A part of me. Bye.
And finally I might know what this means:
Happy trials, Martin
Mutt and Jeff will return next week.
