What I Ate: Jan 4, 2020 Everything on a T.V. Tray
My mom died on January 5th, 2019. For months leading up to the anniversary this year, I was anticipating what it would feel like, wondering how monumental the date would seem.
It didn’t seem monumental. It felt like every other day had, since January 5th, 2019. Like I had lost the person who brought me into the world. Like I was untethered.
The day before the 5th — January 4th — that day was more heightened. Because I was still in anticipation. I was still caught in a countdown.
**
On January 4th, Nic and Ollie were out of town, and I was alone. Utterly alone. Bela wasn’t even home. No mother. No husband. No son. No dog. I had no one to depend on, and no one to let down.
I was, in so many ways, free.
That Saturday, I ate all three of my meals in the living room. I still can’t figure out exactly why. It was — each time I went to eat — the place that called to me. Sit on the rug, my body said. Forget utensils, unless they are necessity. Lose the formality. Sit on the floor with your figure slumped over, and shovel the food in however you want.
I wondered. Who would I be without others around me?
**
It is a fine balance; allowing the desires of the self, and maintaining the self that others want, or need — to see.
For the last ten years of her life, my mother spent most of her time in a bed. Snacking and reading. Reading, and snacking. I loathed her for this. It took her leaving me for me to forgive it.
**
On January 4th, I did little other than read — and write — and snack. I snacked on the couch, and took my meals on the plastic teal Ikea tv tray she left behind, no one beside me.
**
A friend who also lost her mother said something a few months ago that scared me. She told me that as strange as it may sound, that I should try to take comfort in the temporary state of the active missing.
Each day that goes by, we are more aware that that person we love is no longer there — so the active mourning, the active missing — becomes latent. It doesn’t burn the way it once did. And since mourning reminds us of love, we miss it.
**
This morning, I took a spinning class. The class is very dark, and physically intense, and I always leave out of breath. I love the way it feels to get to the brink. The brink of exhaustion. The point of no return. Because there’s no such thing. Only in theory. All we do is return. For as long as we are here on earth.
I eat a hardboiled egg before every early morning class I take. If I don’t eat, I feel faint. I eat the egg standing up in the dark kitchen, and don’t take time to prepare it as I’d like. I’d love to sprinkle it with the perfect amounts of salt and pepper, but sometimes, the act of eating is more about sustaining and less about joy.
**
When I stopped pedaling, as the class came to an end, I suddenly thought of my mother. As I swung my leg over the bike, my legs buckled under the sudden, enormous realization that she was gone. That I will never again be able to fix anything, in relation to her. That, no matter what I do — no matter how beautifully I live — I will never be able to feed her joy.
**
My mother’s life had become more about sustaining and less about joy.
**
One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to swallow, in this place of missing her — is that I am no longer holding myself accountable to the task of making her happy. I miss her sassy voice and the sound of her toothless mouth gnawing on almonds over the telephone line. But I would be lying to myself if I didn’t admit that because I am no longer trying to feed my mother joy, I can concentrate more on feeding me.
**
Antoinette no-middle-name Magdaleno Green loved bean burritos, maybe more than anything. She loved enchiladas and popcorn and cinnamon rolls and cookies and every, every single type of candy.
And she loved me.
