Posts Tagged ‘mommies’

if there are any heavens my mother will

if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have
one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses

my father will be(deep like a rose
tall like a rose)

standing near my

(swaying over her
with eyes which are really petals and see

nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
which whisper
This is my beloved my

(suddenly in sunlight

he will bow,

& the whole garden will bow)


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I am not sure if My Mom is a Fob is as funny to non-FOB-parented’ folks, but I LAUGH so freaking hard and my friends and I pretty much identify with all of them. So CUTE.

Had dinner with high school friend, his workforce substitute, and workforce substitute’s friend who is a second-year now. (Cute.)

Things to get done, do tomorrow. For now, gotta pee b/c My Mom is a Fob has made me laugh so much.

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When I was five, my mother’s father fell ill. I can’t remember what it was. I don’t know what he died of, if it was directly following this hospitalization or if it was on the tail of a subsequent. I don’t know. I remember only that we flew to Taiwan, that my mother carried me, my arms around her neck, my legs sitting on her hips, and my head over her shoulder, alternately looking over her back or hiding in her neck.

We enter the room where my grandfather lies, not seeming weak to me, as brown and smiling and lustrous-haired as I remembered, laughing, calling my name and reaching out in greeting, though he is lying down. My mother spins around so that I am facing him.

My main feeling however was fear – why was ah-Gong so overriden by machines? tubes everywhere, even coming out of his face. I couldn’t look. I knew I should and that it was a cowardly and a shameful thing to not look back, to not smile and say only ‘hello’ to the man who, with my grandmother, had watched over me during my babyhood and toddler years while my parents worked and bought a home for me to come back to. This man whom, at that point, I remembered, whom I now no longer have any memories of save this one. Damn you, infant(ile) amnesia.* I thought all this and still turned away from him and hid my face in my mother’s neck and she spun a number of times, my neck swiveling always in counterpart to hide my face and not look at the tube-monster that either was or had attached itself to my ah-Gong. The adults all laughed, commenting how cute I was, thinking nothing of it. As soon as my mother stepped out of the room, the shame hit me full-on and I felt regret.

I have since forgiven my five-year-old self for her cowardice and have hoped to use it as a lesson in future bravery, a helfpul resolve in the absolution of my kindergarten cowardice. I had need of it some two years ago and did not make proper use. But that’s another story, or another part of the story I’ve mentioned here, many times.


*There is a possible memory from that period  – of walking away from my grandfather with my grandmother, down the hall in their home, at my grandmother’s beckoning, that there was a gift. She opens the cloest to me and in a giant clear plastic bag wrapper is this stuffed animal my ah-Gong had bought me, now christened Fluffy. Round and huge, orange plastic bulb nose and big fuffy pink hair. I still have him and love him and he is still too large, stubby-limbed, and round to be believable as a stuffed dog. This is perhaps a false memory, but Fluffy is real enough.

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It’s been two years to the day since my mother died. Or passed away. I don’t know where she passed to, but I know if it were just ‘passing’, she would have passed her way on back here. So I’m going to go with “died”, because that’s what it was.
I’m not sure how to process something like this and I’m not sure how much processing I’ve done. I’ve been told and I, too, would tell others that you never get over something like this. You don’t get over it and you don’t quite get through it.
What you do is carry it.
You keep going, but it comes with you and you drag it along. Granted, some aren’t so strong or so supported, so lucky, so whatever strange blessing of circumstance and effort makes a person keep on living past grief. But if you keep on one-foot-in-front-of-the-other plod plod plodding, you learn how to make it lighter, get stronger, stop the chafing, but it sure as politics doesn’t go away.

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My friend’s mother is awesome

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