90

Tomorrow my mother will be 90, and I will think kindly of her. Without contacting her. This is not happy, only a pushing away of misery. I would I could feel safe talking with her, instead I stutter at the thought.

She wasn't abusive in any legal sense. Still, I recoil at her eternal words, her attitude toward me, her lukewarm passivity and absolute judgement on the most trivial of matters. Her empty tears and willful blindness. She didn't cause her own damage, neither did she strive to heal it, only passing it on to others. Yes, I pity her, but give her enough dignity not to tell her. No one wants their own daughter's pity.

If I could have gotten through to her... but that required her to listen all the way down to her heart, searing into her shrunken soul. I never expected it, nor really hoped for it in the last twenty years or so. I wouldn't insist, not my job, couldn't succeed.

D's father's mother is to be 101 years old, not much older than my mother. He wants to visit her one more time, and is anguished at her recent decline. He's urged D to form a relationship with her over the phone, which my dear one is not up to in any way*. And I stay silent on the subject of my estranged parents, who left me with scars of anxiety and pain. Their pain, my inheritance.

I think this is why I've been stammering and worrying so much, on top of the much disturbed sleep from the hot/cold flashes. Obsessive thoughts of wills, or contact with my brother. I sincerely hope I have been legally disowned, only right really. But I also know I will not be told of her death, whenever it occurs.

This knowing I won't know is eroding my fragile peace of mind. And I am feeling very fragile, not knowing what temperature anything is, fractured sleep. Which are weeds, which are from the seeds I've planted.


At nephew's 1st birthday party (don't ask) SIL's mother (grandmother?‡) announced they'd come from a funeral, deciding they would "Let the dead bury the dead." One of those verses that I puzzled over as a child, and embraced as an adult.

Nephew is a good little egg. Given a cake to smush(?†) he patted it and grinned, as if to say, "What do you want me to do with this? This is as far as I'm going, here. I'm not making a fool of myself, you know. I'm NOT YOUR MONKEY!"


Vigilantly weeding this morning, thinning the sunflowers. Young man walks by, I say "good morning" as I do. He stops and tells me about living in Hawaii, with stacks of lava rocks, and a friend taking a photo of him, and an orb appears in the photo near his head. I do not tell him that was a dust mote, but smile and thank him, tell him I'm glad my cairns please him. He's maybe 20, thin and thoroughly tattooed, tank-topped and bushy haired, with that sweet air of new age spirituality. He offers me some "crystals" if I ever want any. I decide to translate.

"All these rocks are from around the house, I balance them as a sort of gift to the house."

It's all about play, to me, but I don't think he would quite understand that impulse. So, I try to find his language, and explain there. House needs no jewels, she is one.

Taking a break from stripping paint, my arms ache, and D has been coughing from pollen. There is time, no rush.




*We don't even talk on the phone much. Typical conversation goes,

"Hi, I'll be on my way."

"Ok, see you when you get here."

"Anything you need me to pick up?"

"No, just come home."

"Ok, love you."

"Love you too."

*click*


†Ok, this is a new thing apparently. Where one year olds are given a small cake to smash up and make a sugary mess, as parents take photos. Totally alien to me. Wasteful and indulgent in my mother's eyes. I don't really object to letting a kid fingerpaint with icing on B-day, but I don't feel any need to be the audience, either. Is this local custom or internet meme?


‡SIL's family is hardcore Utah-mormon. Gave D the heebeegeebies big time. Nice enough, but don't ask about the portraits of Joseph Smith and Brigham Young in the living room. On the other hand, my mother had a large print of St. Veronica Giuliani in the living room.