Wednesday, January 30, 2013


My mom is in her dream city of Kyoto on her way around the world teaching with my dad on a boat. She won't be back until May. Some people's mother's are dead, and will never come back and definitely not through Barcelona in May, and suddenly I tremendously feel this. That I'll be a member of the club my husband is in, and that my mother herself is in, and that I didn't want to join.

Remember the Almodovar movie All About My Mother when the daughters are talking about how they miss the smell of their mother's farts? Well, I do now, too, and also, strangely, her breath, which I never noticed that I actually have noticed and filed away somewhere in my infant brain, and find familiar, comforting, and like kefir.

And the smell of her perfume of which I am have never been until now a fan. A gigantic white flower pouring out of the pillowcase like Hawaii has erupted. And her mohair cardigans, which, had I known I would miss I would definitely not have guessed since when she hugs me there's always the potential of a hairball.  And her tiny screwball script. She always signs her notes to me upside down as WOW and I used to think was so corny and now I so don't.

1 comment:

  1. I just love your words and your heart, and especially this.

    The irony is that I'm so close with my mom I find I cannot write about her. I like this way in.