Normally, I get through this day without much mishap. Sometimes I even forget it until days later. But today, it came at me from out of the blue. When I try and trace the brain threads activated by this, it was due to a recent memory about the movie, "Xanadu," hearing about Anya's mom is trying to do a book about her brother, and someone who visited today brought her teenage daughter, and I had no idea they were mother and daughter until the last moment. Not sure how they are related.
So I am playing ELO's, "Don't Walk Away," and crying because I am a sap.
I really wish I had a grave to go to or something. My mother would have been 70 this year. I know that her death gave me a kind of freedom that would not have been possible, and one of the few suicides that seemed like it helped more than fucked over loved ones. I also know her drinking and tranquilizer abuse had damaged her mentally, and I was taking care of her more and more, so if she was still alive today, she would probably be in a nursing home. And in theory, I'll get to see her again when my time to pass comes. I *know* of all this, folks.
I still miss her. So sue me.
I wish I had known her as an adult. Like one more day, at some sober point maybe in the mid 1970s, I could go back in time, show her photos of a grandson she never saw, introduce her to a wife I am so grateful to have married, tell her about the relatives in Sweden, ask questions about my family I have always wanted to know. I wanted to let her know I turned out okay, and actually fairly successful and social. I wish some of you could have met her. A few of my readers have. A very few remember her not as the neighborhood drunk, but knew her as children themselves. Just. one. more. day.
Sadly, many of these mental exercises still end in how I would have to tell her what happened and how I ended up this way, and I don't know how I could avoid it. This is the "time travel is not as great as you think it is" training of being a science fiction writer. You want to be all smiles and warm thoughts, but then how could I not be tempted to tell her, "Your husband is FAR more an asshole than even you or I thought at the time. You want to know how your funeral went? Sit down, because this is going to hurt." If one of you got visited by a grown child of yours at age 40, wouldn't you be curious about the sobbing? Or why your kid had to go BACK in time to introduce some of the people important in their life like a wife and son? You wouldn't have to be Dr. Fucking Who to figure out something very bad happened. I doubt an hour would go by before that became the elephant in the room, and the smell of peanuts and manure would be overpowering to the point of tears.
I guess part of me wishes I'd hallucinate and see her ghost and have some kind of closure. But in some odd way, the fact I *don't* see her ghost kind of validates the fact none of the other weird psychic shit I encounter almost daily is made up. I figure because if any of it was some strange subconscious projection to be "special" or whatever, seeing and communicating my mother's ghost would be top of my list. Those that have lost a parent or loved one know what I am talking about.
Anyway, to Gladys "Mama" Larson, I miss you. Many times I have missed you far too much to be reasonable, I am sure. Why 22 years is some magic number of years, who knows. I bet some astrologer or numerologist could whip something up. Double 11s, something.
Today is hard.