February 7, 2003
Barbequed Sentiment
I wore a single black glove on the drive home, merely because I could not, at forty-five miles an hour, manage to root around on the passenger seat floor for the other glove.
So. I'm bad. I'm bad. I know it. And Billie Jean, contrary to popular belief, is not my lover.
I just had a two hour dinner with my Mom. She bought me a Valentine monkey that makes kissing sounds, and we talked about Dad and her and me and the family over steak and barbequed ribs. I started to cry twice, blotting my tears with a red paper napkin and clutching my Mom's hand over the table. She's lost weight, and she looks sad despite her assertions of happiness. I tried to be as honest as I could with her, and I was grateful for the understanding nods that she gave me.
I don't think she'll come home. I think that my family is going to be forever fractured... I think that I will have to take up Mike's offer on just being enveloped into his.
The pictures just don't mean anything anymore. The memories don't, the sentiments in the birthday cards don't. Mom said that I see her and Dad as one, as MomandDad.
And I do. Despite 20 years behind me, they are still Mom and Dad and they will never ever be Goldie and Mark. I can't help that.
I guess she can't help that she needs to be Goldie, now, too. I guess I'll learn to accept it.
Will my Dad?
astera at 7:00 p.m.