There is all this togetherness, and lately I've just been reflecting on my family in my own life. My mother raised me as a single mom on a modest paycheck and we have an extraordinarily strong bond. We talk every few days, a continent apart, and get to see each other once or twice a year. I don't feel the way about my mother the way some people feel about theirs: that they'd rather be separated by a strong distance, that they'd rather not share everything with her, that she's a person to see on holidays and birthdays. My mother is a piece of my soul and, indeed, a piece of my very own body. When she's sad, my heart collapses, and when she's happy, my heart soars. Although we don't connect on politics, religion, or even my own choice of partner, she stands by me no matter what. Like most mothers, she's been my biggest fan throughout my life, rejoicing in my accomplishments and dragging me out of the mire of my failures. She accepts me for everything I am, even if what I am isn't what she had hoped I'd be. She's done her best for me. That's all any child can ask for.
When I moved away to the West Coast, my grandparents stopped talking to me. I don't know why; we'd all been very close. My granddad had been the closest thing to a father I'd ever had and an extremely influential figure in my life. In the chaos of a Sicilian extended family, he'd been the quiet figure in the background, observing and measuring. He is rational, intelligent, and curious. If he doesn't know something, he won't pretend to know; he'll seek out the answer, though, so that he knows for future reference. His honesty and simplicity in life was in strong contrast to the know-it-all attitude of most of the rest of the family. He was an inspiration to how I shaped my life as an adult. He played ball with me in the back yard. He built snowmen with me when it snowed. He drove me, my mother, and my grandmother to college and helped to unpack my belongings. He took every boy I ever dated into the basement to show them the things he had built and the careful craftsmanship that he used not only in building, but in the rest of his life. At least, that's what I'd always hoped he was doing. In truth, he could have just been threatening the life of every boy I ever brought to Christmas dinner. I'll never know.
I don't know if they found out that I was dating someone of the same gender, or if they were just devastated that I chose to move to Oregon. All I know is that they stopped talking to me, and when my grandfather did choose to speak or write to me, it was always with contempt, the sharpness of hurt, and the accusatory nature of a grown man that cannot conquer his emotion. His letters crushed me. I had already been abandoned by a mentally unfit father, and now the closest thing to a father I'd ever had shut down as well. As you can imagine, I don't have much faith in the ability of men to love unconditionally. I thought they'd at least try to be happy for me, to make it an excuse to come West and travel. I was wrong.
And so I ponder family. I think of Terry's family, tightly knit and always there. I think that if I never have children, I may never have anyone to gather around my dinner table when I'm old. I think that if I don't convince my mother to move out here soon, I may lose her entirely one day. And then, what family will I have? Ours is not a family where uncles and aunts are particularly close to nieces and nephews. Out of nearly ten cousins, there is only one that I stay in regular contact with, that I am even sure is alive. So without my mother, I will be, for the most part, alone in this world. In Refuge, Terry says something like, "When my mother dies, I will no longer be a child." Perhaps it's morbid to be so worried at 26 about losing my mother, but we are connected in a way that I will never, ever have with another human being so long as I live.
I think, though, that I may be getting into her head with the constant nagging for her to move West. We can buy a little property with two houses, I say. We can have dinner together all the time again, I think to myself. We can watch the birds on the feeders together, throw balls for the dogs together. We can be near each other again, I think. The way it's supposed to be. The way it's always been for our species until so recently: caring for one another. A mother spends her whole young life caring for a child; it is the child's duty to then care for the mother when the time comes. I recognize that as my duty, and also as my desire. I know my mother's heart lies in the West; when she was my age, she traveled extensively with her lover at the time. They hiked through Yellowstone, visited the great Sequoias, and, once, she even had to drag her partner out of the woods after he became ill from ingesting some poisonous plant. She's a lot more like me than anyone knows. Her heart longs for open spaces, for quiet places, for broad blue skies and the howl of coyotes, whether or not she can articulate it. Her heart, like mine, longs for the unknown, for the exploration of new forests and the sight of mountain ridges. And I see us, traveling to those forests and breathing the deep crisp air of a mountain backlit with sunset. I see us on a little farm, feeding chickens and chickadees, with my family and hers (should she ever choose another partner). I try to see these things as hard as I can, so that one day they'll be real.
I love you, Mom. Happy Mother's Day. And, thanks.
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