Wine Drunk and Laughing About Our Old Writing

Mom,

I have read, and witnessed, and contributed stories about a seemingly universal pain, a specific sadness that comes from losing a mother, either parts of her or entirely. Some confessions are bleak and meant to be because why keep a secret unless you’re afraid of it? Why lock away your heart unless you expect to be hurt again in some way?

I could tell you about all the things I thought you did wrong, and you would probably have a legitimate excuse behind those actions or inactions, whatever they were. And who am I to say that you were a bad mother when I haven’t been one myself, when I’ve realized that the existing definitions of motherhood in this world are so varied?

I can’t ramble and complain about the things we never had, not when I’ve known so much more than others, had a chance to hold you in my arms and understand the magnificence that’s woven within your being. Sometimes, it’s melancholy to find the similarities in our stories, all the paths we, for all honesty, shouldn’t have taken. But I won’t see it that way, not today.

My confession is that, for too long, I didn’t want to consider the good in what we had because I couldn’t forget our shared afflictions. I think I’m finally ready to move past it. So, I want to tell our story with just the joys and glees, the things we can recall that make us happy.

Before I was born, you were working at a community college, starting your career, and I imagine you were anxious and confident all at once with that bravery I always loved glowing in your eyes. The first picture of me, I think, is when you were standing in front of your blackboard, holding a piece of chalk like you were about to write down something brilliant.

After I was born, your doctor said, “Look, there’s a little bow in her hair,” and you met your first daughter. I think you expected it to be harder to raise me, more tantrums, and gum-in-hair disasters, but I was happy as long as we could watch those classic, black and white movies and eat peanut butter ice cream. When I was four, you came home with blonde hair, and I was so happy because I thought you did it to look more like me.

Growing up, when you worked full time, I thought you were some sort of mysterious, international spy because you were always gone during the days and came home with cool things like pens you could erase. I think you enjoyed the idea of being cool because there wasn’t much glory in accounting. Eventually, I think your dedication and that wizard brain were the things that made me aspire to be, in some ways, like you.

When we found the kitten hiding in the recycle bin in the backyard and the ones stuck up in the tree in some nowhere forest, you let me take them in. I used to think it was because we were actually related to Snow White and destined to take care of all the stray animals we found. You were always ready to entertain my empathy.

In elementary school, when I started plotting stories but didn’t know how to write yet, I would dictate them to you and you would scribble them down in a little bound notebook I crafted with printer paper and a shoelace. For almost a year, that’s how we would spend our evenings. When I got more serious and started drafting real, legible stories, you would listen to my optimistic vision of being an author. Remember how we used to come up with secret pen names and practiced how to write them in cursive?

When the boys were on camping trips, we would have movie nights. One time, we got locked out of the house on the way back from the video store and laughed at ourselves, until you came up with the brilliant idea of hoisting me up through the window, and I was convinced, again, that you were secretly a spy in a past life.

In middle school, I begged you to cut my hair short to the jawline because I remember how it used to look on you, and I wanted to seem more mature. I cried when I realized it only rounded out my face. You took me to the store to buy a hat that made me look like a cowgirl, and I didn’t hate it as much anymore. That same summer, we went to the state fair and watched the Clydesdales trot, came up with silly names for each of them, and then almost made each other puke on the rolling cage ride.

You took me to my first concert — Josh Turner, and I screamed my lungs out from the back. Before I went to school the next day, you wrote a note to my teachers that I had laryngitis, as if it were our little secret that we actually knew how to have fun. You talked me through my first breakup — some guy that had the last name Love, and then you laughed because you realized that was the only reason I liked him.

You had your car accident. For a month, I stayed home and watched classic, black and white movies with you, and we ate peanut butter ice cream.

In high school, after starting my first job, you taught me how to do taxes. Then, I read your first book and realized how much effort you had poured into it. We signed up for a writers' group and used our secret pen names, even joked about wearing wigs. We listened to lectures from screenwriters and a lady who wrote a story about a lost puppy then went on a writing retreat to spark much needed inspiration.

When I was sixteen, we wore the same size clothes. We would swap jeans and dresses and go to Goodwill looking for silly outfits that we could wear while painting because we had started learning how to use acrylics. Every year, we watched “I Was a Male War Bride,” and “Romancing the Stone.” On Christmas, we would wake up early, make hot apple cider, and you would let me sip your breakfast wine.

In the mornings before school, I would cuddle in bed next to you, and we would talk about boys, our books, and what I wanted to do when I grew up. You helped me apply to universities, even entertained my crazy schemes about opening a cat café.

When I graduated, you were so proud that you didn’t have to ask me to smile for the pictures. I knew you wanted to remember me being happy in that moment — your youngest finishing high school. It was such an achievement. So, I thought of that picture of you by the chalkboard and did my best to imitate it.

I started college, moved out, got married, but still came back home every weekend to do laundry and get wine drunk while we read our terrible, old writing. When it was raining, we would sit in plays at the local theater and swoon over that one actor who always took the funny parts. In the sun, we would walk through the rhododendrons and try to snap as many pictures as we could before our allergies kicked in.

I finished my book. You started pitching yours to agents. We would eventually get discouraged, but we always seemed to make light of the situation when we realized all we had was time. When I was anxious about things like getting a job, the meaning of life, finding happiness, you were always there to listen and give me a reference or two.

I graduated college, got divorced, and moved back home. We got wine drunk and binged watched “Schitt's Creek.” You started working from home, and every morning turned into coffee talk about our books, and boys, and what we wanted to be when we grew up.

I moved out of state, and we talked on the phone every morning and afternoon. Then, eventually, I stopped calling, but I knew that you knew I wanted to. I started publishing poems and finally called to tell you that, after all, I decided not to use the pen name. You said you still might use yours, and I was convinced, again, that you were involved in some sort of espionage.

You came to visit last winter and got to meet the puppies. We did our nails at the dining table and laughed again about our terrible, old writing. We went to the zoo in the snow, and watched “White Christmas” while drinking spiked apple cider. You called when you got home and asked to do it all again next year.