I love my mother. I truly do. But every time I participate in an energy healing, I’m asked about my mother. She won’t leave me alone. She’s always in my space, going through my energy, looking under my chakras, taking my sense of self. She never did the invasive things that other people talk about—stealing my money, opening my letters, reading my diary, going through my drawers to find unspecified evidence of ambiguous activities. I don’t get it.
Mumma. This is a new trick I’ve learned from a character in a book. I laugh every time I say it. Mumma. I called my mother right away, as soon as I discovered this new game and left her a message.
Mumma.
Usually I sing to her. Marrrlayyyyyynaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
Have you ever considered becoming a singer or writing songs? My mother asks.
She means it. She thinks my voice is spectacular. Sexy. She wonders if people (read, men) calling me might fall into a swoon before they are able to leave a message. She calls several times a day just to hear my voice. This is why I let my mother mess around in my ether regions. Who else loves me like she does?
When I was a kid, my mother was my hero. She could do anything. And she never cried like my dad did. She burned my blanket when she thought I was too old to be sucking my fingers. She burned our bikini tops when she thought my sister and I were too young to be covering up breasts that weren’t there. She liked to drive fast and hike alone. She drank beer and ate pickled pigs feet. She grew pot just to shock. Oh, Mother.
We’ve gotten to that stage in life where we’re friends, and my mother tells me things like, I should never have had kids. I had no idea. I did what I thought you were supposed to do—get married and have kids.
I’m glad you had kids, Mom. I’m glad we’re alive.
She ums. No matter how often I tell her, I’m never sure she’s satisfied.
Maybe that’s because I can’t count the number of times I’ve put my mother to bed. Lifted her out of the wheelchair and set her down on the mattress, pulled off her socks and pants and shirt. Checked her diaper. Changed her leg bag to the more roomy night bag. Rubbed cream on her bottom, her tailbone, which is exposed and worn from the long hours she spends sitting. Covered her with a sheet, a comforter, a blanket, pulling them up to her neck, and over her head until she laughs, Hey! And then leaning down, covering her with my body, her body as slight as a young girl’s, brushing back her hair, kissing her cheek.
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