My mom has always been
able to show love without any expectation of anything in return. Not only
has she always been generous with her time, energy, money, and hugs, but she used
to pack my lunch and put notes and stickers in it, write me notes in lipstick
on the bathroom mirror, give me little presents that she knew I'd like, drive
me to dance classes, horseback riding, cheerleading, acting, gymnastics,
softball, soccer, summer camp or whatever else I wanted to try. She
served me food only for me to complain about it. She would wait with me
for the school bus so I didn't have to wait alone and then she'd run back
inside right before it came. I pulled her out of bed in the middle of the
night, more than once, to cry about how stupid boys were while she herself was
fighting melanoma and my dad lay sick in the hospital waiting for a heart
transplant. Even though I’m certain she
was exhausted, she hugged me and patiently let me cry into her chest as I’d
done as a small child and for that moment I was a normal teenager and she was a
normal mom and I forgot that death was always leering at my family, just around
the next corner.
I could go on and on
listing the generosities of my mom and perhaps I should, but the point of this
post was supposed to be to say that I wish I were more like her.
I want to love like
that. I want to write notes, to give
hugs, to unabashedly tell someone how absolutely gorgeous I truly think they
are without any sort of expectation of those things in return. I want to play, be silly, ceremonial, and
dramatic without expectations of others to join in, unless of course they want
to.
Then, of course, I feel that
old choking sensation. Just at the base
of my throat below my voicebox, beyond that lump.
Emotions get stuck. I get stuck. I gulp all of that down into my chest, where it presses against my
ribcage for days and weeks and months.
And years.
I wonder why my chest
hurts, why my tummy hurts.
I used to write poetry. Looking back on one part of one poem in particular I think it is perhaps about the
release of this very thing I dream about being able to do. Here is that poem. I still think it is one of my favorites...
in my naval, golden
and bubbling
Sweet champagne
that sparkles up to my
throat where it rests, corked and quiet
Every kiss, a sip
Is it luscious on your
lips?
Does it tingle on your
tongue?
Pop! the cork
The world is thirsty
