Thursday, January 5, 2012

list proper

We arrive at midnight after a long evening of pomp and circumstance. She parks in a well lit area and we step onto a substance reminiscent of marble. The temperature is a perfect sixty-eight degrees and a breeze blows the ocean to us. I walk over to a grouping of tall carts and pull one from it's place as she opens the trunk. We both remove and stack the luggage until I am waiting while she parks the car.

On the elevator she presses two. In the time it takes for two people to move in a box from one floor to another she turns to me and says, I'm so excited to be here. Aren't you excited?

Yes, I nod and smile. It's good to be here.

The elevator opens to a small hallway which in one right turn widens to a large porch under a sky lit by a full moon. She turns left, takes a key from her purse and opens the door. Again we begin the deconstructing and constructing, putting things in their temporary places. We work in silence until she says, It's beautiful, isn't it?

Yes. Gorgeous, I reply.

I return the tall cart to the land of tall carts, roll it into the original geometrical pattern and feel like I have done something nice for my fellow man. Then I reward myself with drags from a cigarette in a dark area under a tree on the east side of the building.

When I return to our place she is in the kitchen making a list. I watch and listen as the listmaker of all listmakers has conversations in staccato with the air around her. I look at the familiar, neat handwriting and notice she puts a line through some items as soon as she writes them. My laughter breaks her concentration and she looks at me, What?

I walk to the double glass doors and open the curtains revealing what we can see of the water under a night, It's just you're making a list at midnight. Nothing wrong with it. It's just funny to watch.

There are things we are going to need. I'll get them first thing in the morning.

Okay, I say. I think I am going to bed. See you in the morning. Good night and I love you.

Last night he told me he could see how I have her in me, and all I could think was, I hope so.

Grateful for my Mom.


Anonymous said...

I think it is only fair to present another perspective on our mother for your readers. I too am extremely grateful for my mother, but her obsessive compulsive disorder is not all that defines her. Her ability to see and convey life's cold hard truths is second to none. Let's go on a journey, one that I have relived in dreams countless times over the years.....

I cannot remember when exactly that flying became my biggest fear. For that matter, I do not honestly know why it became such a phobia. But regardless of reason or time, the fact is, I hate to fly, and throughout my childhood and teenage years, I was in the air a lot.

In the summer following my sophomore year of high school me and my mother took our annual pilgrimage back to our homeland. Twenty eight hours of flying with three take offs and three landings. Terrifying. It was in the air between Singapore and Tokyo on this very trip that an event happened that would change my view of my mother forever.

Sleep. Try to sleep. Please sleep. Please Lord let me be asleep for this whole ordeal. Sleep is the only escape from my mind imagining the total chaos and insanity of a plane going down with me in it. And i did, I was asleep. I was asleep and blissfully unaware that I was on a plane when nature decided, or for that matter, some idiot pilots decided to bullet us head on into a ferocious storm.

I think it is important at this time to convey that I have what I would call a safeguard to my phobia. This thing prevents me from leaping to my feet at at the slightest bump and screaming "WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!". This safeguard is, as long as I do not see a stewardess panicking I am somewhat okay.

I wake as the plane drops so much that it elevates me from my chair and then sends me back to it with a large thud. A stewardess runs down the aisle towards the back of the plane with a look of panic. SHIT! I look out the window and at that very moment I see a bolt of lightening hit the wing. HORROR. AAAHHHHHH. SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! GO BACK TO SLEEP. My mind is trying to cope with this when once again we hit another air pocket and drop. My memory says it was thirty seconds of free fall when in reality it may have only been a second. BANG! We have stopped free falling. More lightening. Grown passengers are crying, babies are screaming, the plane is beeping and then free fall. Again, THUD! I am about to lose my shit. I turn to my right where my mother is sitting in the hopes she can give me some comfort, some assurance, something, PLEASE. Yet sitting next to me is a woman that is laughing. No comfort. She is actually laughing at me for she sees the total panic and knows that her son IS LOSING IT. "mom" I say like I am three. "It's like a roller coaster. haha. Whooooo!" is her giggling reply.

AAAAAGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!! (internal screaming, i think, i may have screamed aloud, i know i cried.)

Sensing she needed to comfort her son in someway and being only who she is, she gave me these words of wisdom:

"Josh, When it is your time, it is your time."

At that moment, those words gave me absolutely no comfort. However over the years that moment and those words have given me courage. i strive for the day that I can live by that, in essence, live without fear of death because when your number is up, it's up. I love my mom for this, and now many years removed from being on that plane, am thankful I was on that flight with her.

I too, am grateful for my Mom.

Shea Goff said...

Classic Mom definitely. Now all we need is for Jason to come here and tell a story.