Sunday, February 04, 2007

Quiet Morning

It’s quiet right now.

Except for the yelling at the video game.

A lot to do… a lot to do…

I have to go get some last minute things for the party- crushed ice, a couple bags of limes for the cosmos, a strapless bra…

Who wears those things?

Apparently, me, today.

I may just borrow Walter and Allan’s corset.

Do you need a bra with a corset?

These are the times I miss my mother. She would answer these questions for me. Laughing hysterically, mind you, but she would. She would call when I was elbow deep making something and want to chat. I loved telling her about the preparation and how I could not talk- and continue to yammer away anyway.

Every time she was sick and threatened to die, I would think about what it would be like if she died. I tried, as I do with everything, to predict the future, cover each angle, to be prepared. I always knew I would miss talking to her on the phone the most. And when she would recover, for a while, I would cherish being able to pick up the phone and call her until it became routine, or we started to fight again.

Tonight, all the new things I have from her are on display. The beautiful artwork. The new dining room table. I’ve worked myself into a tizzy to get the house ready not only because I always do before a party, but because so much has changed.

I did not predict how proud I’d be to have her things.

So, Mom? While I’m shucking the five-dozen oysters with Walter today- because Walter IS going to help- I’ll know you’d be dialing midway through the first few. There’s crab, and ribs, and big hero sandwiches. Pigs in a blanket for the kids although you know the adults dig into them, too. Chips, salsa and I really have to go or it’s never going to get done.

The paintings look amazing. My house has grown up. Thank you.

Yes, I’ve put the Chihuly away. No chance of it getting broken.

I promise to send a picture of me in my outfit. Stop laughing.

For all the time I put into going over and over the possibility or her death, I never could predict how the loss would rise in my throat, unexpectedly.

The last few things need to get done. The house looks great.

It’s quiet.

I did not predict how deeply I’d miss her.


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