mom-over

Let's call it a mom-over. I catch myself warning myself about every little hazard only to subsequently react and swing hard in the opposite direction. I ride my bike fast and reckless. I've figured out how to swing my hips and swerve the bike at tight angles. In my head I hear myself reply to her. As I see my day my thoughts reach out to her in conversation.

"This is what I meant..." "Don't you think..."

Some of these mental conversations are painful as her attitudes about women or black people present themselves. Then I remember, I'm not allowed to talk with people who aren't there.

And some day she won't be. There will be no jam. There will be no one seeing me to the Buffalo airport - no reason to even fly there. I hear, in my gut, what she meant when she said that my siblings would be all I'd have when she's gone.

And she will go. Maybe it's something about people in their 7th decade. She could trudge along for another 20 years like her grandmother. But I have to hide watering eyes as I hug her good bye. After security, after I turn and waive and see that lone, boney hand in the air, I strut toward the gate in high heels, eyes flowing with tears.

I may never see her again. Who knows. But that voice will always be in my head!