Trains, Writing/Copying, Reinventing Mama
2-13-02
I haven't been on a Metro train in years. It all comes back in a whiff of subterranean air, the distinctive clack of wheels crossing tracks, the muffle of train station announcement from a human voice, the automatic voice
"Doors Opening"
"Doors Closing"
accompanied by a distinctive 'Ding-Dong' door chime, the heads bobbing in unison to the undulation of the track, the rustle of newspapers, the sea of eyes-- some half closed, many staring down at newspapers.
2-16-02
Mary is sick. She is sitting across from me at Borders. Her voice is hoarse, she is tired, her hair looks like it has been inhabited by wild bees, and she has picked out a Tracy Kidder novel, "Home Town." She finished the "Summons" by Grisham in 4 days. Writers should be very happy with Mary--- She buys books. I feel like a traitor telling her to go to the library and borrow the book.
A young gum chewing, bubble blowing , roots showing, too bright red finger nail girl reads a book and writes in a spiral bound notebook. Although I can't read what she is writing, I know it must be schoolwork. She keeps switching from one colored pen to another. Her writing looks as precise as printing-- very neat and tiny -- her margins form ruler straight lines down the page. I wonder how much of what she is writing is original and how much is simply copying from a book. This makes me wonder how much of what I write is original and how much simply comes from what I have read.
I have been thinking about my mother lately and how I would like to reinvent her.
My memories of my reinvented mother begin in the womb. I didn't know then that she was listening to a Samba, gently swaying to the music, and humming in a high, sweet voice. I have vague recollections of sweetness, warmth and gentle movements.
“She could have been a professional singer of the first caliber" my uncle tells me now. Neither my mother nor father told me anything about her missed career. I only hear about it at my mother's funeral.
"She made me promise to tell you this only if she could not tell it. This seems as good a time as any." My uncle wipes away the tears. They were very close as only twins can be.
“I on the other hand got nothing." He had drunk too much of the after funeral wine at the "come back to the house" -- party to remember all the great things my mother was.
I was beyond crying. I was 16 and trying to be tough. In fact my father worried about me. I seemed to be stuck in the denial phase of grief. It simply seemed impossible to me that this person who took care of my every need, who pulled up the blanket when I was cold, who wiped away my tears when I scraped my knee, who introduced me to new worlds the first time she read treasure island to me, was simply not going to be around. Even though lately I had been sticking out on my own as all teenagers must,
I have to take Mary home...
More reinventing Mama later
I haven't been on a Metro train in years. It all comes back in a whiff of subterranean air, the distinctive clack of wheels crossing tracks, the muffle of train station announcement from a human voice, the automatic voice
"Doors Opening"
"Doors Closing"
accompanied by a distinctive 'Ding-Dong' door chime, the heads bobbing in unison to the undulation of the track, the rustle of newspapers, the sea of eyes-- some half closed, many staring down at newspapers.
2-16-02
Mary is sick. She is sitting across from me at Borders. Her voice is hoarse, she is tired, her hair looks like it has been inhabited by wild bees, and she has picked out a Tracy Kidder novel, "Home Town." She finished the "Summons" by Grisham in 4 days. Writers should be very happy with Mary--- She buys books. I feel like a traitor telling her to go to the library and borrow the book.
A young gum chewing, bubble blowing , roots showing, too bright red finger nail girl reads a book and writes in a spiral bound notebook. Although I can't read what she is writing, I know it must be schoolwork. She keeps switching from one colored pen to another. Her writing looks as precise as printing-- very neat and tiny -- her margins form ruler straight lines down the page. I wonder how much of what she is writing is original and how much is simply copying from a book. This makes me wonder how much of what I write is original and how much simply comes from what I have read.
I have been thinking about my mother lately and how I would like to reinvent her.
My memories of my reinvented mother begin in the womb. I didn't know then that she was listening to a Samba, gently swaying to the music, and humming in a high, sweet voice. I have vague recollections of sweetness, warmth and gentle movements.
“She could have been a professional singer of the first caliber" my uncle tells me now. Neither my mother nor father told me anything about her missed career. I only hear about it at my mother's funeral.
"She made me promise to tell you this only if she could not tell it. This seems as good a time as any." My uncle wipes away the tears. They were very close as only twins can be.
“I on the other hand got nothing." He had drunk too much of the after funeral wine at the "come back to the house" -- party to remember all the great things my mother was.
I was beyond crying. I was 16 and trying to be tough. In fact my father worried about me. I seemed to be stuck in the denial phase of grief. It simply seemed impossible to me that this person who took care of my every need, who pulled up the blanket when I was cold, who wiped away my tears when I scraped my knee, who introduced me to new worlds the first time she read treasure island to me, was simply not going to be around. Even though lately I had been sticking out on my own as all teenagers must,
I have to take Mary home...
More reinventing Mama later
posted by Kajgreb | 5:36 PM
2 Comments:
How easy life would be if we could just reinvent difficult situations
and horrid relatives. I am quite fond of this Mama though. Perhaps I need to do a bit of reinventing of my own.
It's funny how when we remember those we love, it's somehow always the funeral memories that come to mind first.
It's only now, with the distance of years, that I begin remembering things of my dad that isn't the pain of the funeral -- his vegetable garden, the way he smoked, the sound of his guitar.
Lovely post. Your descriptions are always so vivid and real.
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