Last night I had a strange but sweet dream about my mother. I don't think I realized it until this semester—when I was writing more poems about her—that I have this odd, almost unsettling, intimacy with her. There's a borderline obsession I have with making her the subject of my writing, yet I feel like sometimes this is the only way I can genuinely be close to her. I want to work on fixing that. Real, emotional relationships > any emotion(s) my writing could convey.
In her honor, here's a short excerpt from a recent nonfiction essay that I wrote. This scene is pretty true to the majority of my childhood, even though I specifically mention second grade.
I spent most of my time growing up beside Mom. Her job—as a first grade teacher—was so much more exciting than the business Dad worked in. I was overjoyed the day I officially became a second grader. It meant I had enough experience and knowledge to help grade Mom’s papers, my favorite assignments to correct being math and spelling. After dinner I’d sit on her bed with a stack of papers split between the two of us while she indulged in all of her recorded ABC Daytime soaps, watching “All My Children,” “One Life to Live,” and “General Hospital” in succession. When a paper was perfect, she taught me how to write a cursive “O,” which stood for “Outstanding,” and could easily be transformed into a smiley face with the decorations of two circles for eyes and a large, semi-circle for a grin. When Dad couldn’t be bothered, she even pitched me baseballs in the backyard when I wanted to practice, which is probably part of the reason I was so bad at the game. Mom could barely get the ball to the plate.For more on my lack of athleticism, scan the previous entries of this blog.
