Thursday, February 25, 2016

Love Letter To My Mom Turning 70





My mother turns 70 today.

In her honor, I am wearing a crisp white button down "that elongates the neck." I've existed for years in an outfit that the best compliment you can give it is to say that I am clothed. In her honor, I would have a parade. Something brassy that would walk up and down the street.

My mom is always turned out. She always smells good. If she doesn't like the way a restaurant has cooked a lobster she sends it back. Me, I'm always simpering, "There is some lovely filth down here," and ::don't make eye contact::

I've added no link to that fashionable, clean, presentable, lipsticked, queen-of-all-she-surveys, "farm boy fetch me that pitcher," chain of DNA going back to Mitochondrial Eve. In fact, my mom's Dancing School presentability used to chafe me. All the baggage of the second generation.

I wore Jams.  I ran amok.  The son of my mom's friends from France visited and said, "You are wearing men's underwear as shorts, no?" in that irritating, imperial Renee Descartes accent of logic. I think she might have had hoped we would like each other.

But your mother turning 70?  This is a thing to which you wear something special. Not yoga pants.  Chanel No. 5. My grandmother wore Chanel No. 5. On me however it smells like angelic baby's bum.

We are going to luncheon, as my mother would say.  I've purchased a present for her. I feel like the buck-tooth eleven year old I've always been: I hope Mommy likes it!

Not all mothers get to turn 70. Not all daughters get to experience aging with the one that brung 'ya. We're getting old together. We were young together.

There is something comforting about these parallel rails.  These little engines that could; our hearts. I think I can I think I can. The trains going up the steep mountainside into the mist.

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