Listen To Me

Maria Lively was a very driven woman.  A get-to-the-point kind of person. That’s why she was fed up with her 33-year-old son, Blake,  still living in her basement. She didn’t care where he went, he just had to go. “Listen to me—I’ve been to London, I’ve been to Houston; I’ve been to Chicago [and I’m better for each experience. You need to have experiences, you need to go,]” she said as she walked down the busy streets of New York City.

I assume when she got home that day she took off her blazer, kicked off her heels, and let herself fall into the comfort of her Lazyboy. Another day’s work completed. Another day she hung over my head. I missed her, when she left. One day I woke up and—poof!—she was gone. I guess booze and a budget cut can really change a person. Within the months that followed I begin to realize my new reality: she wasn’t coming back. I no longer got to anticipate the sound of her stilettos on the hexagon shaped tile of our foyer floor. Instead, I was forced to watch my father cry as he came to terms with this fact as well. “What did I do wrong, son?” He blubbered for nights on end. I don’t know dad. I don’t know why she never called to explain herself. I don’t know why she thought Bruce was better. Maybe because he knows how to fly an airplane. Maybe because he funded her drinking and shopping habits. It was astonishing, really; because even after he dropped her like she meant nothing to him—like I knew she did—she still refused to come home. But I was the one that had to go.

Then, I hit rock bottom. I was twenty-three when I dropped out of college. I had just broken up with my girlfriend and she was my only reason for going to class. I had nothing and no one. Dad was gone for a while by then. May 25th was the day I showed up to her door with one suitcase and a small backpack. I rang the doorbell. Her mouth fell open when she opened the door. “Blake,” she said when she found voice. Her tone wasn’t surprised, much to my dismay. It was cold and disturbing.

    She wanted me gone before my foot crossed the door’s threshold. I knew I had a right to be there. A right to share the same space with her. A right to bond with her. A right to make up for lost time. A right to feel like her son for once in my life.

    “Listen to me—I’ve been to London, I’ve been to Houston; I’ve been to Chicago.” Maria was unfair. She knew exactly where her life was headed. Inconclusive doctor’s visits, elongated hospitals stays; her days were numbered and she knew it. How dare she tell me to go when all I’ve ever wanted was to stay with her? Did she think that telling me to explore and immerse myself in the world would make me forget about how I was robbed of one of the greatest experiences? I don’t know. Are people supposed to feel this much uncertainty in life? This, I don’t know the answer to either. But I do know this: I must go. I understand why. Sadness is a thing that fluctuates. It grows and changes in intensity, but it always stems from a central place. An empty one. So I must fill it. I must go and see and release and absorb. For the both of us.

    I put my pen down on the desk and went to the closet. I put on the tux that Aunt Pam rented for me. I looked in the mirror and situated my tie upon my chest. “Blake!” Aunt Pam called. “It’s time to go.” “Coming!” I wanted to respond but I’m not sure if the words came out of my mouth. Everything moved in slow motion. I was back in front of the desk and the words on the half sheet of paper stared back at me: Mom, I’m going to go. London, Houston, and Chicago. I don’t why I was tasked with writing her eulogy.