long tote from the depths of my closet, more like the depths
of my heavily suppressed consciousness. Yanking the lid off, I try
not to get too lost at the sights inside. I remove the wooden
picture frame that's home to a photo of my mom, me, and Sir from
the first baseball game I ever had. I was three. Sir looks younger.
His face more cut. His body more lean. The deep features remind me
of a younger Josh Brolin. With his arm stretched around my mother's
slim shoulder, she looks even smaller than I remember. Her face
looks soft. Her features rounded. The glow on her sun kissed skin
all natural, the same shade as her hair. I remember being told how
she could be a stunt double for Kate Beckinsale long before I knew
who that was. And I'm at their feet, leaning on my bat, looking
like a miniature mixture of the two. Sir bought me that bat. It was
also one of the only games Sir did attend. My attention relocates
to the other objects in the container. Her jewelry box filled with
presents from Sir comes out next. I remember the day he went
looking to sell the stuff, swearing he had placed them in the
for-sale box. I don't want anything that's on the inside but didn't
want him to pawn my mother's memories for profit. An old teddy bear
she got me when I sprained my wrist joins the not-now pile. Her
planner from our last year together follows suit. With all those
things outside the tote, I can do nothing but stare.
“Have I mentioned how beautiful you look in
that dress?” he coos at her, stroking the back of her palm, staring
deep into her eyes, her blue anchor tattoo with the linked wedding
bands flashing at me.
Mom's brown hair is all pinned up on the top
of her head except for two curled pieces that hang by her face. The
black dress looks fancy. Her shoes look fancy. Everything from a
distance about her looks fancy. It's funny to me because Mom is so
not fancy. The bird tattoos on the back of her neck, the one on the
inside of her hand, the fact she's wearing his tags around her neck
instead of pearls. Come on now. That's not really fancy.
I wiggle around, so I'm sitting on top of my
bended legs. My hand pulls at the buttoned-up collar of this yellow
dress shirt Mom insisted I wear. I hate things with so many
buttons. Who needs that many buttons? I wish she'd let me wear my
baseball tee.
“Quit fidgeting,” she scolds, fixing the
strap on her black dress, her hand skimming across the trail of
peacock feathers that fall down her back. I love her tattoos. I
can't wait to have some.
“And sit on your bottom like a respectable
gentleman,” he demands.
I plop to my bottom and flop my face into my
hands. I'm not meant for fancy restaurants like this even if they
do have the best bread sticks in the entire world. At all the
tables are people like my parents. People huddled close. People
staring into each other's eyes. There are only a few with children
dressed up like me. Why do our parents insist on dragging us around
to places like this? I would've settled for pizza and a movie.
“I love you.” He raises her hand to his lips
and kisses the back of it.
“I love you too.”
A smile joins my face. While it's gross to
see my parents so into one another like the people you see on TV,
at the same time, I'm thankful we're all together. I'm thankful
they can still stand each other after all this time. I'm glad, when
they look at me, even to scold me, there's still love in their
eyes. Most of my friends’ parents don't behave like this. What they
have I think is special. I can't wait to have it someday.
With a sigh, I rise to my feet, hold up the
dress for her to admire, and nod, doing my best to put that memory
back in the past where it belongs.
“Might be a bit of a tight fit, but I think
it'll do.”
“An old girlfriend's?”
If only it were that simple. “My
mother's.”
She looks even less relieved than had it been
an ex’s.
“It was the only piece of clothing I kept.
She, uh, died of an unexpected aneurism
of my heavily suppressed consciousness. Yanking the lid off, I try
not to get too lost at the sights inside. I remove the wooden
picture frame that's home to a photo of my mom, me, and Sir from
the first baseball game I ever had. I was three. Sir looks younger.
His face more cut. His body more lean. The deep features remind me
of a younger Josh Brolin. With his arm stretched around my mother's
slim shoulder, she looks even smaller than I remember. Her face
looks soft. Her features rounded. The glow on her sun kissed skin
all natural, the same shade as her hair. I remember being told how
she could be a stunt double for Kate Beckinsale long before I knew
who that was. And I'm at their feet, leaning on my bat, looking
like a miniature mixture of the two. Sir bought me that bat. It was
also one of the only games Sir did attend. My attention relocates
to the other objects in the container. Her jewelry box filled with
presents from Sir comes out next. I remember the day he went
looking to sell the stuff, swearing he had placed them in the
for-sale box. I don't want anything that's on the inside but didn't
want him to pawn my mother's memories for profit. An old teddy bear
she got me when I sprained my wrist joins the not-now pile. Her
planner from our last year together follows suit. With all those
things outside the tote, I can do nothing but stare.
“Have I mentioned how beautiful you look in
that dress?” he coos at her, stroking the back of her palm, staring
deep into her eyes, her blue anchor tattoo with the linked wedding
bands flashing at me.
Mom's brown hair is all pinned up on the top
of her head except for two curled pieces that hang by her face. The
black dress looks fancy. Her shoes look fancy. Everything from a
distance about her looks fancy. It's funny to me because Mom is so
not fancy. The bird tattoos on the back of her neck, the one on the
inside of her hand, the fact she's wearing his tags around her neck
instead of pearls. Come on now. That's not really fancy.
I wiggle around, so I'm sitting on top of my
bended legs. My hand pulls at the buttoned-up collar of this yellow
dress shirt Mom insisted I wear. I hate things with so many
buttons. Who needs that many buttons? I wish she'd let me wear my
baseball tee.
“Quit fidgeting,” she scolds, fixing the
strap on her black dress, her hand skimming across the trail of
peacock feathers that fall down her back. I love her tattoos. I
can't wait to have some.
“And sit on your bottom like a respectable
gentleman,” he demands.
I plop to my bottom and flop my face into my
hands. I'm not meant for fancy restaurants like this even if they
do have the best bread sticks in the entire world. At all the
tables are people like my parents. People huddled close. People
staring into each other's eyes. There are only a few with children
dressed up like me. Why do our parents insist on dragging us around
to places like this? I would've settled for pizza and a movie.
“I love you.” He raises her hand to his lips
and kisses the back of it.
“I love you too.”
A smile joins my face. While it's gross to
see my parents so into one another like the people you see on TV,
at the same time, I'm thankful we're all together. I'm thankful
they can still stand each other after all this time. I'm glad, when
they look at me, even to scold me, there's still love in their
eyes. Most of my friends’ parents don't behave like this. What they
have I think is special. I can't wait to have it someday.
With a sigh, I rise to my feet, hold up the
dress for her to admire, and nod, doing my best to put that memory
back in the past where it belongs.
“Might be a bit of a tight fit, but I think
it'll do.”
“An old girlfriend's?”
If only it were that simple. “My
mother's.”
She looks even less relieved than had it been
an ex’s.
“It was the only piece of clothing I kept.
She, uh, died of an unexpected aneurism
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