Belisten

Stop talking, she had said to me while swirling anxiously in circles on her black, leather computer chair. It was covered with a faux fur blanket which she had received as a gift one Christmas; it was something familiar and safe. Her vulnerability was obvious; her all too familiar ways were especially reflective in her warm, brown, almond shaped eyes which barely met mine. She skirted around our conversation. What do you want me to say? I didn't respond with words, yet my mother heart was on high alert, absorbing each syllable as she mumbled, noting her agitated movements, listening with a racing pulse to her words while my unbridled flashbacks of her childhood giggles stabbed through my well-trodden heart. You never listen! I am listening; I feel I am poised, attentive and my dear, cherished, only child how I wish you could feel the love I have for you, a love which will never die. Mom! I sit more attentively. What the hell am I doing wrong here? My eyes are right on her, my mouth is shut, my body language is relaxed, (or is it?) and I am here, ready for whatever she has to say. Nervous, yes. Ill prepared for parenting a struggling adult entirely? Maybe. What can I do but take in her words, let them tumble around as if in the clothes dryer until they settle. Help me out here someone! I am lost as a Mom. Lost. Oh God. She stops swirling about and looks at me as if I can't possibly relate. I hate my life. What do you hate about your life? I try to verbalize my reply, to sound like a friend, a bit casual yet I resent my repressed tone. I am not loved for who I am; I am transgender, and Pappa walked out of my life! Are you daft Mom? You of all people should know how much it hurts to be alive, to be me, to not be wanted! I clear my throat, stand, and wrap my arms around her. I don't speak. I hold her face in my hands and look into her eyes with pure love. My pain is hers. I take her hands and lift them into the air with mine. For one moment we are one; I am familiar with listening to her emotions as they burst from her soul. I hear her sorrow, her plight, and in all my imperfections, I remain steady. Without quivering I select some words but stumble and don't say them. I am thinking, "always as far as time can take us, I am with you." Mom! What have I done now? Can we talk about something else? I let go of her, sit down, and pretend to look at a menu for Thai take-away laying on the coffee table. A few minutes slowly tick by; I look up as she wipes away a tear. I love you, Mom. Handing her the menu she quickly tosses it back. I want pizza; I hate Thai food. You of all people should know that. I do know this. I know so much about my beautiful, hurting loved one, yet I also know nothing at all. Can my love save her? I order pizza. I ask what she wants and she rolls her eyes and turns her back toward me. She has asked for the same pizza for twenty years. I order one large pizza with cheese. Just cheese. She swirls around to face me and blurts out, With olives! Surprised, I add them to the order. I don't know as much as I want about her. Olives? She never eats olives. I am sobbing inside wanting to soak up all her self loathing, stitch her wounds; I'd give anything to see her laugh or smile again. I want her to be happy. Mom? You're just staring at me like a zombie. Can you go now? Of course. I have filled her needs for this particular wave of melancholy. I stand again and kiss her cheek. Leaving her is always hard. Leaving her alone with all of her thoughts stings as I push through a smile. Talk tomorrow? I ask. I am twenty-six, not six Mom. Emphasizing the twenty she sighs and stands. She gives me a hug of reassurance, an unspoken contract that she won't harm herself. Enjoy your pizza. Opening her door for me she ushers me out. Thanks and goodbye, Mom.