I am running as people often do. I think of Tom and Nick, people in the past I have let drift. Still the birds chirp rampantly and yesterday I wrote about Louis Menand and listened again to his American Studies essay on The New Yorker.
It is the beginning of summer and yesterday I promised I would pick up my mother, who is probably lying in bed in her nursing home. Last time I saw her she was pulling at her chin hairs. I pulled them that day and then we, my sister and I, took her to dinner. I think mother stared at the single, small, open-faced chicken taco that she said was too spicy. With both upper and lower dentures, I think the issue was just chewing. She did however eat something chocolate from what I remember, except that I really can’t remember. I base everything on the likelihood of the experience because that’s what we do. Chocolate sauce and chocolate cake, there’s ice cream, coffee, and cokes, which are mother’s cc’s.
The whole world is quiet, less of course the birds chirping. I have humming birds, the occasional honeybees that have found the humming bird feeder. The mother in the birdhouse is protecting her babies by constantly attacking them.
What’s a mother to do?
I know Lani Kim sacrificed herself for her children, but then children grow up to be people with fresh memories and opinions and life wasn’t meant to be The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks. She can tell you that it is about doing what you are supposed to be doing because sometimes the love between a man and a woman must take a back seat. Children are much more important, where a mother’s heart can lie dormant for years; she keeps the memory of a true love and wears sadness like a perfect smile that warms every heart.
No, the past is just decisions made based on something that could not be ignored. Love comes and goes. My therapist said that you can love many people, and she was correct.
At a point however you take less pause in beauty’s pull. You start to remember too those you loved, but just not sexually, who were good mates. You were always jealous of those who had such even keeled relationships. Because, at least for you, you always waited for the dramatic beginnings and where the obvious good forces in being with someone who was good for you wasn’t appealing until now. Second thoughts, at nearly 53, are to imagine how many great years you could have had if you’d only kept Laine Page, for example. You and she were always together reading books and talking about them. No, that was true love.
But then there’s none of that now, only someone else’s babies and the silent morning compared.