La Madre

“Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall; A mother’s secret hope outlives them all.” ~Oliver Wendell Holmes

My mother has written a lovely post for you all. You’ll notice the way she writes an entire sentence using proper grammar and without throwing in a casual ‘F’ word for emphasis. She even deals with problems without drinking. And yet I’m 110% sure that we’re related. I get my meager writing ability from my her and my ability to sip wine and swear at the same time from my father. If the latter ever wrote a blog post you’d be like “OOOOOOOH I get it”. Crazy genetics. Enjoy:

It’s the story of my life:  opportunity knocks and I’m too busy to answer the door.  Not this time.  I consider it a gift to be asked to guest post on No Pasa Nada, and I’ve only been on the blog once.  But I’ve heard good things about it, and I am fascinated by the conecept of blogging.  First, why haven’t I been on Heather’s blog?  Because our mother-daughter connection is such that we need our private spaces-even when those spaces are quite public to others.  Second, why the fascination with blogging? I’ve longed to write for a woman’s magazine since Rosie Acevedo’s big sister, Isabel, shows us Glamour magazine when we were in 6ht grade.  Until then, the only magazines I was aware of were My Weekly Reader and Scholastic. My mother occasionally brought home Family Circle from the A&P. If it interested her, it was of little interest to me.  But, Glamour and its do’s and don’ts and makeup tips and fashion photos and ad spreads had Isabel’s approval and my undivided attention.  Blogging has that same effect today. I’m fixated on the possibility of wiring for women without editors or query letters getting in the way.

Enough about that. I’m one of those people who is in constant conversation with myself–perpetually writing and rewriting any given conversation.  Rehearsing for whatever’s next.  I’m convinved that people who talk to themselves are just giving voice to the internal conversation–oblivious to anyone and anything but the dialog playing in their head.  Lately, I’ve been replyaing a conversation about dying.  My middle sister is living with terminal cancer.  On a recent Sunday afternoon, she called to just check in. In the middle of talk about weather and plans for the coming week, she casually dropped that she had recently named me her health care proxy and she was told she should share with me what medical procedures she would and wouldn’t want toward the end of her life.  On a sunny afternoon, in front of a picture window, I listend to her as she, with the same matter-of-factness that my son give me his weekly grocery list, told me how she wanted to die.  And just as casually as the conversation had begun, it was over and we were on to talking about who was coming in for my son’s upcoming graduation.  I put down the phone and immediately began replaying that conversation.  Shouldn’t a conversation of such siginificance have come with warning?  Shouldn’t there have been tears? Shouldn’t we have been in the same room? Shouldn’t I have said something more profound than “I’m listening,” “I hear you,” “I understand.”? Or, is this really how such conversations are meant to happen? Casually, naturally, mater-of-factly. Life does go on.

This is why blogging fascinates me. I sat down to write about stolen kisses. What’s come out is totally unexpected. Thank you, Heather. This is the greatest gift. Love you the moon and the stars.