We talk, just so we don't have to deal with our surroundings.
We talk, because that's how we deal.
She tells me, “We've been through hell and back, but we had some good times, didn't we? Good memories.”
I tell her, “Yes, plenty.”
She asks, “What's your favorite one?”
And I think, and think, and think. And I say, “New Year's Eve, 1999.”
She smiles. She knows.
The looming threat of 2K. Computers were going to collapse. The end of times. The world was going to end.
She remembers that we drove around all evening, exploring the streets in central Mexico, trying to find a restaurant or fast food place that was open. She was trying to handle me, an irritated eleven-year-old, and my sister, a quiet-but-annoyed two-year-old. She was always handling things, and she was a pro at it.
We kept looking. Looking, driving, searching, and I could tell She was trying not to fall apart.
“I've failed as a parent,” She joked back then.
And –
“What if the world does end tonight?”
And –
“We can do this. We'll find something.”
We ended up buying ham sandwiches and cheese croissants from a gas station in the middle of nowhere. We found a bakery on our way home, and bought hours-old pan dulce; conchas, puerquitos, donas. We got five different kinds of soda, and enough dulces to rot our teeth.
“What if the world does end tonight?”
We sat on a blanket in the middle of the living room, and She was trying not to cry. Reminders of a messy divorce were everywhere, and She was trying not to cry. She was doing her best to provide everything for us, and She was trying not to cry.
We watched rom-coms until midnight, the world didn't end, and we laughed and ate and laughed again. I focused on Her face as she blinked back tears, and She ran her fingers through my sister's hair.
I said, “I love you, mom.”
She said, “I love you more. To infinity and beyond.”
Fast-forward, fifteen years later, and we're in a hospital room. Fast-forward, and they're pumping chemicals into Her veins. Fast-forward, and we're talking about our favorite memories as if they're going to disappear if we don't talk about them.
She is starting to forget things, so I remind her of them. My throat is dry from all the talking, and Her throat is dry due to the medication. I sneak in some pan dulce that night, and we eat it under artificial lights, giggling like mischievous little girls.
We had some good times, didn't we?
I say, “I love you, mom.”
She says, “I love you. To infinity and beyond.”
The world doesn't end when she dies, but it sure feels like it.
We talk, because that's how we deal.
She tells me, “We've been through hell and back, but we had some good times, didn't we? Good memories.”
I tell her, “Yes, plenty.”
She asks, “What's your favorite one?”
And I think, and think, and think. And I say, “New Year's Eve, 1999.”
She smiles. She knows.
The looming threat of 2K. Computers were going to collapse. The end of times. The world was going to end.
She remembers that we drove around all evening, exploring the streets in central Mexico, trying to find a restaurant or fast food place that was open. She was trying to handle me, an irritated eleven-year-old, and my sister, a quiet-but-annoyed two-year-old. She was always handling things, and she was a pro at it.
We kept looking. Looking, driving, searching, and I could tell She was trying not to fall apart.
“I've failed as a parent,” She joked back then.
And –
“What if the world does end tonight?”
And –
“We can do this. We'll find something.”
We ended up buying ham sandwiches and cheese croissants from a gas station in the middle of nowhere. We found a bakery on our way home, and bought hours-old pan dulce; conchas, puerquitos, donas. We got five different kinds of soda, and enough dulces to rot our teeth.
“What if the world does end tonight?”
We sat on a blanket in the middle of the living room, and She was trying not to cry. Reminders of a messy divorce were everywhere, and She was trying not to cry. She was doing her best to provide everything for us, and She was trying not to cry.
We watched rom-coms until midnight, the world didn't end, and we laughed and ate and laughed again. I focused on Her face as she blinked back tears, and She ran her fingers through my sister's hair.
I said, “I love you, mom.”
She said, “I love you more. To infinity and beyond.”
Fast-forward, fifteen years later, and we're in a hospital room. Fast-forward, and they're pumping chemicals into Her veins. Fast-forward, and we're talking about our favorite memories as if they're going to disappear if we don't talk about them.
She is starting to forget things, so I remind her of them. My throat is dry from all the talking, and Her throat is dry due to the medication. I sneak in some pan dulce that night, and we eat it under artificial lights, giggling like mischievous little girls.
We had some good times, didn't we?
I say, “I love you, mom.”
She says, “I love you. To infinity and beyond.”
The world doesn't end when she dies, but it sure feels like it.
✱✱✱
