I'm so glad I went. An evening with my mom's best friends from high school felt restless, just being invited. Daughters just don't say no to things like that. But in 2007 I wanted to.
What I didn't know was that I was being invited into basements from 37 years ago filled with music and unsigned birthday cards. My mom's telling of the time she was in Ken's car on the way to her brother Tony's funeral. His car broke down. She was late to Uncle T's funeral. One of three times she would ever see my grandfather cry, and she was late. I knew the story but the way she said it that night made me want to hug her like a daughter that would have said "yes" to her invitation the day before to this dinner with no hesitation.
Ann T's husband has since left her. She married at 19. She has never been single. She does not know how to balance a checkbook but she knows how to survive breast cancer.
The songs were like security blankets. I understand songs like that.
I drove home thinking about when I was "that age."
19.
New York.
Thing is, everyone there is still the same stranger they were to each other several years ago. Sounds are the same. My uncle asked me, "Won't it be nice to see the side of the city you can only see if you have money in your pocket?" when I went with him years ago.
I'd like to think I knew what he meant. I think, I hope I did.
Truth is- there is a certain part of ANY city you can only see with money in your pocket.
It's the safe streets, the inside of cabs, Broadway musicals and 5 star salads. And there's everything wonderful about those things, honestly.
Apparently what money could not get you was a good homeless friend to share HIS lunch, doormen who will save your life, friends with names you cannot pronounce but will spend hours roaming the streets to play their harmonica next to you, coffee from a street corner that tastes more like home than Starbucks ever could...
and here I was thinking bright lights would save me and give me memories in place of dreams that were bold and BUCK-eyed. Here I was annoyed at my mother's invitation in to her past when she, herself, had her own cock-eyed miracles she had survived.
Small town gave my mother friends that understand sitting on the porch and watering the lawn with their fathers, packs of wild dogs, packs of wild horses, Italian wedding cookies and Russian Easters.
Well, any way, Happy Birthday, Rosebud. I am sorry I did not come to see you. I don't know how to leave you. The nights I used to tuck you in and listen to you talk yourself to sleep...got so quiet once you moved. You don't talk at all anymore. Well, maybe inside you do. I think that...inside you do talk and it's brilliant.
And now I, am selfish, and I don't know how to leave you...and so I don't. And I'm so sorry.
But if I had come today...those are the things I would have said this time. And I would have told you how amazed I always was at your humility...the most beautiful room you ever saw was in a hotel.
And I would have sang Bill Bailey...and on the bench at City Park you would have sang it with me.
I love you.
No comments:
Post a Comment