Please Talk about Me When I'm Gone

Every Time I Scribble a Thought with Artistic Intent

(2013)

Everything that is good about me is because of my mother.

I'm fortunate, in a sense, to be the type of person who gets more sentimental about the times I read a certain book or heard a particular album than I ever do about holidays. But I'm still human. I can recall the almost breathless inability to accelerate time and make Christmas arrive more quickly. Or the Halloween costumes, Easter candy, or the great Thanksgiving feasts (and the not-so-great family fights that would sometimes ensue). The holidays, as idealized rites of passage, still resonate, but these occasions are incapable of enhancing or obliterating whatever mood I'm already in. As such, the absence of my mother might feel more acute on holidays, but none of these events have been unduly marred during the past decade.

Surprisingly, even the week that presents a triptych of raw remembrance, comprising her birthday (August 23), and the anniversaries of her death (August 26) and funeral (August 30) have been bearable. These have become prospects for celebration, however somber, and I'm mostly able to channel that grief into gratitude for the times she was around, the time I did get to spend with her. Similarly, Mother's Day is seldom joyful, but it provides an imperative to consider happy events and my relative good fortune-despite what's obviously lacking, now. It also obliges me to behold my family members and friends who have become admirable mothers themselves, and I'm humbled to see my mother alive in the looks they give their children.

And if I'm ever inclined to stop and consider how corny or manufactured these sentiments may be, I console myself with the awareness of how increasingly corny and manufactured holidays in America have become.

...

Any time I need to be reminded that I'm one of the lucky ones, I look at the picture taken of me and my mother the day I was born. The pose is not unique; virtually every child has at least one frameable shot of the post-delivery adoring gaze. Or, every child fortunate enough to have been born in a hospital (or home) under safe conditions to a mother who welcomes the moment and, most importantly, is prepared for the moments (and days and years) that will follow. I don't need to resort to religion or sociology: I can simply consider the circumstances and the infinitesimal odds that I ever made it from my father to my mother in the first place (if you know what I mean).

Who can't recall asking, on Mother's Day, why there wasn't a Kid's Day? The response was always the same: Every day is Kid's Day. Most of us who have lived a single hour in the so-called real world have come to register how accurate this tired cliché actually is. Indeed, those of us who were sufficiently well raised didn't need to wait long for this epiphany to occur. A year or two punching the clock, paying bills, cleaning up one's own messes-the literal and especially the figurative ones-and generally attaining that independent status we strove so single-mindedly to attain is impetus enough for reflection. Not merely an appraisal of how impossible it would be to repay the investment made, measured in money, time, affection, and approbation, but a recognition of what was truly at stake: the selflessness your parents displayed, putting in all that effort to enable you to become your own person. The best gift a parent can give (you come to understand) is loving you enough to allow you to not be exactly like them, to encourage you to figure out exactly who you are supposed to become.

...

Holidays have not been intolerable, no more than any other day, especially the bad days when I miss my mother most. As a result, I reckon I'm not the only one who has found that my birthday is the single occasion that can never be the same. Inexorable nostalgic pangs, the pull of biological imperatives, or the simple fact that I'm still human has ensured that the annual recognition of my birth day is imbued with sadness and a heavy longing I don't feel any other time. If so, it seems a reasonable trade-off: that deep and uncomplicated connection, along with the longing any child can comprehend, signifies that yet another cliché holds true: absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Every time I scribble a thought with artistic intent I'm inspired by the support my mother offered, going back to the days I was a kid with crayons, coloring outside the lines while listening to The Nutcracker Suite. She'll never be forgotten; in fact, she'll never be gone. This is what helps and it's also, at times, what hurts.

...

How do you get over the loss?

That's the question I asked a former girlfriend who lost her father when she was a teenager. "You don't," she said. Hearing these words, you can acknowledge-and appreciate-the sentiment; you can easily empathize with how inconceivable it is to possibly heal from that kind of heartbreak. But it isn't until you experience it that you comprehend the inexplicable ways this reality is an inviolable aspect of our existence: it's worse than you could ever envision, but if you're one of the lucky ones, it's also more redemptory than you might have imagined. Mostly, you accept that a day will seldom pass when you don't think of the one you loved and lost. And more, you wouldn't have it any other way.