Your Mom Would Have Hated You

“Your mom would have hated you.” That’s what she said. I haven’t been able to get those words out of my head.

I never met my mom. She passed after I was born. Something about complications. It never really mattered. She was gone, and that was that.

So, yes, I never met my mom. But I was raised by her.

After my 5th birthday I was given a big heavy box. Through tears, my grandma tried to explain that it was full of my mom’s possessions. That the box held her most important things. As a five-year-old, I didn’t fully understand what this meant. Now, I know exactly what my grandmother gave me. A chance to know my mom.

It was the things that, if you were moving away for a few months, you would take with you. Things no one else knows about, things no one but you would understand. That is what was in the box.

It was exactly who my mother was.

25 hours, yet those words still flow in my head. They came from one of my mother’s close friends. We ran into her when my aunt and I met for coffee.

After introductions I knew what we were doing. I knew we were dancing around a topic.

I’ve been doing it my whole life. Even though she was my mother, she also belonged to everyone else. In the same way that you own your experiences, your memories, they own her.

Talking about her was difficult for some. Even after all these years.

Her statement didn’t come out maliciously. I don’t think she realized exactly how rude it was. Maybe that made it worse.

The context of the conversation doesn’t matter. What matters is how true it might be. Yet at the same time, it’s possible she may be wrong.

I didn’t touch the box for the first few months. To little me, it was the box that made my grandmother cry, that made my aunt’s eyes water, and that caused my grandpa so much fear he couldn’t even look at it. Why would I open something like that?

Eventually, I realized it wasn’t fear. It was sadness that caused them to turn their heads away.

But it was mine now, so I opened it.

It contained trinkets, tattered books, but also her diaries. All of them. Years worth of notes, insights, thoughts, feelings.

She sometimes wrote about her day to day, but she seemed to get bored of that often. So, she filled her journals with ideas, plans, lists of books she was going to read.

My mother was a writer. And you really get to know someone when they think no one’s going to read their words.

But something tells me she wouldn't mind me reading them. Call it a mother-daughter thing.

I’ve read her notebooks many times. They're where I find my comfort and right now I need that.

I know that reading her journals could either prove or disprove that she would have hated me, but I’ll take my chances.

My bookshelves take up most of the space in my room, just how I like it, and I have a space dedicated to my mother's notebooks. I pull one at random. I know my favorites by touch, by color. But today, I need something different. Something that won’t just tell me what I want to hear.

Before I sit, I open the window, letting the hot summer breeze fill the space, bringing in the scent of summertime peace.

I can’t quite remember what’s in this journal. It’s actually quite ugly. It’s purple, bound not spiraled. Not optimal.

Although I don’t remember her, I can still see her in me.

I know what parts of myself are fully her, what parts of myself have been influenced by her, and what parts I’ve changed so I would not be her.

So, when I read the first entry that says,

What a stupid, inefficient, ugly journal!

I mentally mark a tally on the side that says I do know my mother.

I've always been close to my aunt and grandparents. They speak lovingly of her, always painting her in a positive light. But there's always a certain lack of genuineness when you live by the idea of not speaking ill of the dead.

The imperfect parts of her died along with her, it seems. The parts that made her human. The parts that made her real.

Reading her mistakes, seeing real proof that she was not perfect, is a gift I never would have thought to ask for. A gift I will forever be grateful to have.

I see the real her. The one my grandparents wouldn't know. The one that did many dumb things, learned from mistakes and always moved forward.

In this purple monstrosity, she recounts her morning. From complaining about her terrible commute to describing a mother she passed on the street. The mother was distracted by something and seemed to give more urgency to it than to her baby. I had forgotten about this next part. She wrote,

Whether planned or not, once you have a baby and have decided to keep it, it deserves all your time, all your love, all your patience and self. No doubt, a child is a challenge, but I hope that when it is my turn, I get to a place where I can thank God for that challenge. I hope.

Looking up, I take a deep breath. It gets so easy getting lost in her writing. It isn’t just writing. It’s real, it happened… to her.

Sometimes I picture what she may have looked like at the time. Where she was sitting. What she did with her hair, what clothes she picked for that day. I picture what a stranger may have seen if they looked in her direction for even just a second.

I think of all those people who did get to see her. Did they even know what they were seeing? Did anyone know her like I do?

How is it fair that they had the chance to see her, talk to her, and I didn’t?

I know that makes no sense. I know it’s not fair. But it's easier to keep a memory alive when you can remember it. I can’t.

I wonder what it would have been like to know her, be around her, spend time with her. I wish I could see her make mistakes, see how she acted when no one was watching. See what no one else saw. What no one else would have thought to look for. Sometimes, I wish.

Leaning my head against the wall, I close my eyes. I feel the hot air, the vibrations caused by my music.

The warm air surrounds me. It’s on my face, on the palms of my hands, up my arms, flowing through my hair.

It’s odd, not right. The music permeates the air, but it’s different. It's like the sadness you feel when things start to change.

Something's changing...

White light kisses my eyelids causing me to wake. I was sitting against my bedroom wall, and now I’m somewhere... unfamiliar.

But I need to go straight. Something is pulling me in that direction. Whatever it is, I can’t control. So, I go.

I'm not supposed to be here. Whether this is against nature or against God, I know it’s not normal. It's a gift. For me.

I’m not supposed to be here, but I get to be.

There’s a cold breeze. A spring breeze?

I head towards a corner shop with glass windows.

A café.

My mind, my feet, the thread, they seem to be in sync. This is where I stop. The entrance just a few feet ahead.

Why this place? I don’t get it. But I'm exactly where I need to be.

The bell of a bicycle dings to my right and as I turn to follow the noise, I catch a glimpse of something—golden.

Something that is exactly where it’s supposed to be. Something that stops everything.

Because there, right in front me is a woman. Sitting at a round coffee table, wearing blue jeans and a black T-shirt, hair pulled into a ponytail.

My mom.

Can I go?

Oh.

Apparently, I can.

The bell on the door rings, the patrons continue their conversations, the baristas go on with their work and, for just a moment, she looks up.

I see my eyes. They’re hers. It’s a moment that never ends, yet I know it must. But I suppose if any good moment must end, it should be the moment right before something even more amazing happens.

So, let’s see something amazing happen.

“Hi, I’m so sorry but do you mind if I sit here?”

She looks up and after a second, she smiles. I follow her eyes as they scan the room, noticing that there are no other tables free.

“Not at all, have a seat,” she says.

I think I’m starting to understand a parent’s excitement at their kid’s first words.

She goes back to reading her paper, and I try not to make my staring obvious. I hope she doesn’t notice that I don't belong here.

I can’t stop myself from staring. She’s real. She was never just a story, but when the only interaction you’ve had with someone is through writing, sometimes you can forget that they're flesh and bones and a little more.

My eyes trace her face, her arms, her hands, then I notice a book on the table.

”The purple notebook…” I whisper, mostly to myself, but she hears.

“Sorry?”

“Oh. Sorry. Your book,” I say slowly, pointing it out. “I was actually going to buy one just like it earlier. But hard-bound notebooks can be so uncomfortable to write in.”

“So uncomfortable!” She exclaims with a smile. A smile that I reciprocate. A smile that means so much more to me than she could ever understand in this moment.

On a regular day I would never go up to a stranger, ask to sit with them then speak to them. But this is not a regular day, and this is not a stranger.

For the next hour we talk. We don’t run out of things to say. We talk about everything; we talk about nothing.

I ask her if she’s ever been to Boston, because I know that’s where she made the funniest decision that landed her in a prison cell.

“No, I’ve never been there.”

Liar.

But I smile anyway. And although she doesn’t know I know she’s lying, she smiles too.

Time stops for a while. Things and people around us start to blur. All I see is her. I see how her eyes crinkle when I tell a joke. I see how she laughs with her whole body just like me. I see the similarities; I see the differences.

I ask her if she has any kids.

“No,” she replies, “I don’t. I’m only 25. There’s plenty of time, you know? When I have kids, I want to be ready. I'll be with someone who's ready. We’re just not there yet, but that’s okay. I know that once I have kids— some people say their life stops, that for the next 18 years it’s all about the kid. Almost like a curse. But I’m going to try very very hard to not think of it like that. I’m going to enjoy shaping a little mini me. Not letting her become just like me, because I know I have flaws,” she laughs. “I’m going to let her be who she wants to be. She’ll never feel as though she needs to be exactly like me for me to love her, because that just will not be true.”

“She?” I ask.

She chuckles, “I’ve always imagined having a girl.“

I smile.

The stories I tell her are happy and funny and we laugh together. But there’s things she doesn’t know.

I tell her about my favorite person, my cousin. She’s hearing stories about the niece she’ll never get to meet. About the grandparents who've mourned her for years. Silly stories about an aunt who never got to properly grieve her sister’s death because she then had me to take care of.

They’re things only I know.

Then, the most embarrassing thing happens. I start to cry. I can’t stop. It’s not just sadness at realizing what's being left unsaid, it’s sadness because I know that these moments are fleeting. When I go back, she won’t be there.

“Oh no. Oh are you okay?” She asks.

Am I? Even if I knew, I couldn’t get the words out.

She gets up and returns with a glass of water. She gives me the classic uncomfortable-yet-trying-to-be-comforting smile which makes me laugh. Because I know my mother. I know how she'd feel about this public display of emotion.

“My boyfriend is very emotional like you. I don’t always know what to do when he starts, but a blueberry scone never hurts.” She slides a plate to me.

I breathe. I take a second I don’t want to give up, but I need to.

Then I’m okay.

“Your boyfriend?” I say changing the subject, slightly.

She nods with a smile. “Some of my friends are very surprised that I’m with him. He is a very emotional bug. But he’s my emotional bug.

“They think it’s all black and white, but most of the stuff they understand about me is usually inaccurate,” she says with a thoughtful smile.

Hmm.

She explains, “I’m not exactly transparent with my own feelings, but I see the advantage of being open like him, and you.“ Then her smile lights up my heart. Because it’s genuine. A mother’s smile.

“I’m so sorry for that. I can’t even explain it,” I say with a small laugh.

“Don’t ever apologize for what makes you cry. Only you know what you're going through. If you can, express yourself in any way, don’t hide it. It makes you different than the ones that look at you with discontent. It makes you, you. And that’s what makes you perfect.”

We get a few more minutes of talking. The tears have dried and gone. And I can feel that the time is coming to an end.

“I don’t know how much time I have left here,” I admit.

“Are you moving away?”

“More like being taken away” I say with a dry laugh.

“Oh. Well, I don’t know much about that but let me tell you this: Every decision to leave can be met with sadness or with hope. Even if it is not your decision, you leave with the memories you’ve created. You leave with the people you’ve met. You don’t leave alone. You don’t leave the same. You can choose to see it as a gift. Being sad to leave somewhere means you’ve found a place that makes you sad to leave it.... That kind of made sense” we laugh. “It also gives you the space to miss what you already have, what you may be returning to. And hey, think of it like this: Our memories are proof that time is not linear. Everything we’ve lived through has not just already existed, it still does. And we can go back there at any time. Sure sure, yes, technically time is linear, but I think you know what I mean," she finishes with a wink.

And as I suspected, this moment is ending. I can feel the tug. And although I wish I could stay forever, I know I need to go back. And maybe that’s okay.

She didn’t tell me the secrets of the universe. She didn’t tell me what magic she must have put in these notebooks. But, sometimes the most important conversations with your mother are the ones where nothing special is said. It’s just the ones where you can feel her love and her self. The conversations where you can just sit and listen and watch, because you never know when, or if, the next conversation will come.

I'm back. Sitting under my window with the purple journal in my lap.

And I cry.

I cry because… I understand why 25 years later; people still tear up talking about her.

I pity the world. I pity the universe because for the last 25 years it didn’t have her.

The most important person to have ever existed.

25 minutes later, the tears are gone. But I guess that’s how it goes, isn’t it?

The sun has set, my music plays. Turning on the lamp, I look down at the journal. Then I turn the page.

‘We have time. We have time. We have time.’ Well sometimes we don’t. But that’s okay. Things will always happen the way they’re meant to happen. Even if we don’t want them to, there are things we just can’t control and that’s okay. Don’t spend time worrying about what we simply have no control over. What would be the point? Because it’s fun? Because it gives us something to do? Please! Go outside. Go crack the spine of your new book. Go use the nice soap. Go burn the nice candles. Go, live now, because when time comes, and time always comes, we won’t be able to anymore.

I told a stranger today, a beautiful stranger, that there are some things we do wait for. Just because we can doesn’t mean we have to, at this moment. And I stand by that. So, before we do go out and do all these things, maybe use your brain first. Ha!

I hope that whatever adventures she has after this are amazing.

I wonder if I’ll ever see her again. I hope I do.

Time isn’t linear. Knowing that makes me happy. Because now, along with her box of things, I have my memories of her.

And now I know exactly who my mother is.