Published by admin on 19 Aug 2011
The first person most of us will ever know is our mother.
You’ll know this person, but you won’t know her the way you know your friends or your siblings or the person you married.
You’ll know her the way a daughter knows a mother. You’ll know that she hates it when you gain weight, because you know that she hates it when she gains weight. You’ll know that she does not want to eat pasta two meals in a row, because you don’t want to eat pasta two meals in a row. You’ll know that she wants you to blow dry your hair in the morning so you don’t look like a wet rat, but you’ll always let your hair dry naturally anyway because blow dryers are tools of the patriarchy until one day you just out of the blue start blow drying your hair.
You won’t know what she had for dinner that last week before she died, because you don’t talk to her every night and even if you did you wouldn’t ask about food. You won’t know if she had a pedicure recently because you didn’t see her feet. You won’t know if she thought about calling the doctor before she died, but you guess that she probably wouldn’t because you know that she thought an aspirin and a nap were all the body ever needed. You won’t know if she read your last blog entry, because your stats don’t go back that far. You won’t know if she would have answered if you called that weekend, if she had been gone already or if she wouldn’t have answered because sometimes she just didn’t.
There are things you will never know about her because how could she possibly catch you up on all those 30 years before you arrived on the scene. There are things you’ll read in her diary that will break your heart and make you close the book because she wouldn’t have wanted you to know. There are pictures you’ve never seen before, at least you don’t remember seeing them, and you’ll think about all those empty frames. The pictures you’ll take at places she should be, but now she won’t be.
I want to write here when I’m happy, but I only turn to this page when I’m sad. And then I realize that my mom’s journal was that for her, she was happy sometimes and maybe she only wrote there when she was sad.