jawnbc | la tristesse

"How are you doing?"

"I'm alright. But I haven't really slept since Mommy died. I keep thinking about her."

"I know."

My siblings and my preoccupation since Mom died has been Dad. They were married for 50+ years and dated a few before that. I can't wrap my head around having that much history with someone--chosen history. It wasn't until I was in my 40s that I realized that spouse trumps all other familial bonds for exactly that reason: it's one chosen, one built, one maintained. Time and again when there were decisions to make around Mommy's care our response was "you decide Dad; we'll support whatever you decide." Not to avoid the responsibility: to acknowledge the bond.

There's always been a sort of gender divide in our immediate family. Not a "boys versus girls" per sé. But the Egan men react to things differently than Egan women often. And yes, I am an Egan man--fook awf. Whenever Mom was critically ill we would be pessimistic: it was Kath (and Mom) who were optimistic.

Conversely in grief Tom and I are concerned about Dad but not worried. Kath's a bit more worried. I stopped worrying the first Sunday Dad rushed me off the phone because "the game was gonna start." If we're back to the régime of football (rule #1: never call during a Jets game. rule #2: if the Jets lose call tomorrow), Dad's Dad. By the way those rules equally applied with Mom.

Lately my grief has become more of an undercurrent than an outright feeling--most of the time. Yes I'm now solidly one of those folks who's moved by sappy commercials (when we don't zap past them on the PVR). But I'm more moved by instances of evident love...much more than those of sadness or loss. In other words, I'm not identifying with others' loss: it's love that's connecting me. And connecting me to how much I miss Mom.

I also understand now, in a different way, how important a faith system is right now--in my instance, one that doesn't really embrace (or reject) the idea of an afterlife. Recently my brother mentioned "I hope Mom didn't see that" (or some such sentiment) and my thought was "from where." Not in that tiresome way a Dawkins or Hitchens or loonie-store atheist might--more in a "I have sense of where she is or isn't." I'm not concerned about it either..though I'd like to believe in ould school Catlick heaven--and that Mom and I would see each other. Again. Forever. But that went out with the mysteries and original sin. Package deal; you don't get the cake if you haven't finished your (transubstantiated) dinner.

But I talk to Mom. Small asides mostly. About things or people that give me pause to say (to myself) "Mom would..." Or "Mom wouldn't...." But especially "jaysus if I'm Mom were here..." Does Mom talk back to me? Nope, t it's been a one-way dialogue really. No...it's more of a one-way narration, a stream of observations.

Is she? Here? I think so. Poltergeist? Nah. Angel? That works, if angels are allowed to scowl when their adult children act like idiots. "Don't be an idiot" was perhaps Mom's most consistent counsel after I graduated university. Which I now hear as "you can do better; try again." She wasn't calling me an idiot: she was challenging me to push beyond my comfort. I'm trying Mom; I get better at it all the time. The idiot thing and the I want my Mommy thing both.

But then I pause and I see her and I'm with her. We're (usually) in our kitchen in the summer house: she in a housecoat me in a pair of baggies. We're talking, but I don't know what about. It's before I'm a teenager, so none of the hormonal shittiness has kicked in. I'm just hangin' with my Mom. Maybe she's cooking dinner; maybe she's putting out cold cuts and salads for "cold dinner" because it's too hot to cook.

We're not saying anything in particular when I drift back there. Not for a lack of want.

In fact, set it up for me and name your price; I'd be there in a heartbeat. As long as I could come back here.