The Birthday Chicken

Dear Mom, we’ve now come upon another Mother’s Day. Let’s do something differently this year, okay?

They say confession is good for the soul. There’s been books written on the subjects, religions based on this principle. I don’t know how true this is, but I want to try. Honestly, I have to. I can’t go on like this forever.

I ate the chicken.

You may not remember it. The chicken, I mean. It was so long ago, and there’s been so much since. But there are days I think about it, even now, even when I can see the gray in my hair and the lines on my face.

I was 11 back then. Barely a middle schooler, but already an over achiever everywhere. I worked hard at school, housework, skill-building. I took over cooking dinners, and I did all the laundry. I was a good kid usually too. I don’t remember ever getting grounded.

This was especially true when you were sick. I didn’t want to ignore your pain, I wanted ti solve it. Maybe if I could do a little more, you’d feel a little better. My siblings were older, less naive, and had more friends. They gladly let me take on the extra tasks.

You had memory issues then, maybe from the medications. You were so angry about that, about your own thoughts and mind letting you down. I didn’t understand then, after all, what did it matter if you left your keys in the car or beside your bed?

The chicken.

You’d made chicken for dad’s birthday dinner. The first time you’d been up for cooking, and honestly, you probably weren’t up for it. But he’d asked you. He didn’t ask for much, or often, and you felt it mattered. So you made him chicken, just a silly simple thing, cooking for your husband on his special day.

There was an emergency at his work, a lockdown that he couldn’t leave. He called home, weary and apologetic. He said to eat. So we ate, of course we did, but you put the best piece of chicken away for him.

Come the witching hour of 3AM, I woke hungry. I looked for snacks, and nothing looked tasty. Except the chicken. It’s past midnight, I said to myself, dad would have eaten what he wanted. I enjoyed the rest, wen track to bed.

Dad hadn’t come home. He got back at 8am, we were at the table. He was so tired, and you were excited for his chicken, so excited that he became excited too. And I sat there, sweating guilt. The chicken was gone!

There was a debate about the chicken, and eventually you decide that you must have forgotten to put it away. Dad went to bed disappointed, you sat there, crying and hopeless. I went to school, hating that I lied, hating that I ate dad’s birthday food, and mostly hating that I didn’t understand why it mattered so much.

For a while, it was a sore subject for you. Then when you started recovering, it became an example of the bad times. You always said it was the worst of when you were sick, the worst memory issue you’d suffered.

You didn’t forget.

I’m older now, some would just say ‘old’. And that chicken is something I still think of. Mom, I see you. I see your fear, your guilt, your anger, and your strength in the face of an unfair situation, your courage to go on even when you thought you’d hit the lowest you could.

I was a mostly good kid.

You were a mostly good mom.

And for the record, it was some damn good chicken too.