Just My Imagination

So, once again, Mother's Day, otherwise known as the day I would prefer to spend under the bed. Honestly, I think about draping blankets over the side until they touch the floor and just crawling under there until I feel like rejoining the world. I cry every day for a week beforehand, feeling sorry for myself and then berating myself for being so silly. I wish I didn't feel this way, and I realize it's probably not very adult, but when everything around you is about celebrating something you don't have, that you barely remember having, avoidance does seem to be what comes to mind.

That's probably one of the saddest things about death. The reality is that the farther you get from it, the fewer people still care or at least are still aware. The people closest start off with the sharpest memories, and as time grinds the edges off, most people end up with memories that don't poke and prod at them very often. You end up struggling with something that's invisible to everyone else.

Lately, I shop for her in my imagination, ticking off books that I've read that she would have loved. (That is probably the greatest sadness for me - my mother was the only person I've ever known who read nearly as much as I do. I'm sure there are other people who do, but no one I've meet, let alone know well enough to chat with.) Imaginary retail therapy, kept to myself, seems to help. I can't buy for myself - unwilling to spend money on small vanities like nail polish, persuading myself that hard water would only damage a copper kettle, noting how infrequently I'd have an opportunity to wear a cashmere scarf. Besides, if she were here, sometimes I think I wouldn't want for those sorts of things. I don't know, but I suspect they are the kinds of things your mom buys you for no reason. Buying presents, however, would likely be the quickest path to bankruptcy for me, and I always see things that I would buy for Mom. Dichroic glass pendants, red brocade wallets, heavy pottery mugs with vellum-esque glazes. This year, I'd be leaning toward Sing Them Home, some pricey organic coffee, and one of the beautiful bleeding hearts from the Italian greenhouse down the road. Imaginary shopping for an imaginary relationship seems appropriate.

Of course, in my imagination, she's always whole and happy. Her eyes are bright, her hands don't shake, and she laughs. She squeezes my hand, tucks my hair behind my ear. She is who she was on the good days, and she gets to be my mother instead of me being hers. That's the best part about imagination: when you're telling the story, you can tell it however you want.