What color. Was. The Blood?

Mom,

Up until recently, you’ve been the “bad guy” in my stories. You probably knew this already and you could have really given a shit. However, from here on out, I’m recasting in the light of the superhero character you deserve to be. I’m going to stop referring to you as a vampire, even though I’m pretty sure that your longevity is directly related to drinking the blood of the young. I’ll stop calling you a Terminator too, even though you have more titanium prostheses holding you together than Ashley Judd. You could give two shits either way, but I thought you should know.

Oh, and those comments about you having more husbands than Liz Taylor? I’ll cut that out too – you’re not getting a fifth husband any time soon – four was probably enough for all of us. From here on out, I’m making a hero out of you.

You’re probably thinking It’s about fucking time.

This change came suddenly; on Saturday I heard Bea play-singing, fully-masked and socially distant:

My mother and your mother were hanging out clothes, My mother punched your mother right in the nose…

I was transported back to my childhood; back then, I was certain that all kids saw YOU as the mother punching the other mothers in the nose! But now it occurred to me that they were probably seeing their OWN moms as the punchers. They were so wrong!

My kids and your grandkids can’t see our story, can’t smell the cheap 1970’s leather or the smell the menthol knuckles or burnt Jiffy Pop like we can. They can’t taste the blood or broken teeth sliding down our throats after a mask-less fastball taught me a lesson about playing catcher, or the beat down from strolling through graveyards at night in the wrong parts of town.

But I see you grin when grandpa recalled that you used to sneak out of the house to drag race in New Rochelle. I remember how powerful you were, purple faced and straddling my father’s chest, knife up and screaming:

I’ll fucking kill you. (THAT’s how to start a summer vacation!)

I remember how our life had to restart, the three of us in one bed after we had to moved back in with your parents. And then how you pulled it together to get us into our own place, a year here, a year there, working two to three jobs as a single mom.

I haven’t forgotten when we were car jacked when I was three and you managed to get that psycho out of our car and get us to the side of the road safely. I haven’t forgotten how you marched down the street and threatened to beat the shit of the neighborhood bully’s dad if he didn’t get his kid under control. I haven’t forgotten how you read my father the riot act when he was umpiring a little league game.

Recently, I was in a bloodless room with some zombie marketing drones, and the turd running the show asked the room;

What brand comes to mind when you think of your mom?

Without missing a beat, my hand shot up and I blurted out

Harley Davidson.

No shit.

In short, you made lemonade out of a shit sandwich; you became a hammer for us and made sure that every obstacle that came our way was a nail. You made it work. You are the toughest woman I know. Even if it was at the cost of countless youths whose blood now keeps you alive or all the moms you punched in the nose.