Now that she’s gone, there’s one less date to remember: Mother’s Day. It’s the one and only holiday I cared about in any way. Whether or not you share other people’s beliefs, you’re forced to observe their holidays because stores close, people leave for vacations and other trips that may or may not have to do with the observance of their holy days (What does going to Miami have to do with Yom Kippur, anyway?) and they eat foods they wouldn’t touch at any other time of the year. Christmas, New Year’s Day and the days for saints and about declarations of independence, “discoveries,” “victories” in battle and other forms of homicide and rape—all of those celebrations mean nothing to me.
Mother never told me her birthday, possibly because she knew it’s the one date to which I’d pay attention. And somehow or another I managed to get through those years without knowing the date anyone else came into this world. I might know for a moment—Some kid in school would talk about a party or some such thing—but I’d forget almost immediately.
In fact, I know the date on which I squeezed between walls of her birth canal—I’ll say only that it was a murderously hot day, just as her first hours must have been, I’m sure—I know it only because some teacher—Mrs. Kilmer, the first lay teacher I ever had—said something about how other kids and I who were born during the summer weren’t going to have celebrations in school. Wouldn’t you like to tell the class what day it is?, she cooed, while looking away from me. I sat silently, my hands folded. Some kids giglgled; she hushed them and waited. Perhaps you need a moment to remember, she sighed. Ten other kids in that class of twenty-nine recited, on cue, the July and August dates on which they’d been born. Then she turned toward me. Maybe now you can tell us….
All that year, I hardly spoke at all. Mrs. Kilmer, it seemed, called on my only for questions about math, Latin and religion. I never knew the answers because I didn’t care about religion and I was simply hopeless in the other two subjects. Then she’d snap and point to someone else and I’d slink back into the dark silence behind my eyes.
Actually, I can remember one other time she called on me. What are you seeing now?, she demanded. A blackboard, you… Should I mention the other kids, I asked aloud: I didn’t want her to wonder aloud whether I wasn’t thinking about her question. Uh, blackboard, wall, American flag.”
What did you see before that?
I stared at her through the glaze over my eyes.
I mean, before you woke up… Some kids tried to conceal snickers. What did you see with your eyes closed?
Nothing.
You never see nothing.
Well, you know, just blackness.
What did you…Realizing it was pointless to ask, she dropped the question.
And—oh yeah—I remember her expressing that cloying, contemptuous form of pity that I later learned to call condescenscion. Don’t be afraid to tell me…Then she’d remember what she was getting herself into. She didn’t accept “nothing” for an answer and I wouldn’t give it. It seemed superfluous, like most things I’ve said and many of the people I’ve said them to.
And so with birthdays. I could never see any reason to demarcate it from any other date on the calendar. At some moment I can’t remember, I left or was pushed from a place to which I couldn’t return, no matter how much I imagined it, if I could’ve imagined. I am in this world and can do nothing about it. I have no control over whether or not I will inhabit any other reality. Why make a big deal over any of it?
Mother would have none of it, either. She never made a fuss about aging, which makes sense when you realize that during my late adolescence she didn’t look any different from my earliest recollections of her. They are, I suppose, what some embalmer thought he or she was seeing before my mother was set before me and those other women from this block.
How could any embalmer or funeral director see what Mrs. Littington, the lady whose name I never knew, or anyone else—including me—had seen, much less make any attempt to recreate it? Now I understand why people—usually women—take at least one look at the face in a casket, then pull themselves away. Trying to substitute some made-up image for the ones you hold in your mind: That’s what’s so intolerable, especially for the people closest to the deceased.
So what are you celebrating, then, when you celebrate someone’s birthday? Or your own, for that matter? Of course, when I was a child, I couldn’t articulate the reasons why I didn’t want to celebrate my birthday. I simply couldn’t understand why it was so important for anyone else. Someone gives you a cake moistened with food coloring; you have to thank people for giving you things you didn’t ask for.
So I’ve never done birthdays. Now, Mother’s Day, that’s another story. Why that date among all others? Well, I’ll say that I try to be as unsentimental as anyone can be in honoring or making some attempt to honor her. Honestly, I never quite knew how to do that, or how she'd feel if she knew that I'd wanted at least one day of the year that was about her, and only her. I had my own reason: I knew I couldn’t always, no matter how hard I tried, obey the few rules she had for me. I also knew that I couldn’t satisfy her unspoken wishes—after all, I did leave this block and I’ll never have children.
One of the few dictates I’ve heard from a religious person that I’ve made the effort to remember came from the priest who presided over the wedding of Mrs. Rolfe’s daughter. Remember, the commandment doesn’t say obey thy mother and father. It says to honor them.” I got the idea, although I never did figure out what sorts of actions honored one’s parents.
If nothing else, I came to realize that a parent, whether or not he or she is biological, is the first person you see in your earliest recollections. And the last you see when you close your eyes to this world. There’s nothing you can do about that; youcan only acknowledge it, or better yet, celebrate it. You never need anyone else, really. I guess that’s the reason why I’ve never worried about spending this moment, the next moment or my last, alone. It’s also the reason why waking up in a cemetery didn’t disturb me. The people in them (assuming, of course, they’re there) were as ephemerally a part of my life as anyone else was. And the dates on their tombstones simply mark the moments when they moved, like an empty railroad car from a yard toward the first station or the first point of collision, and when they exited, like that empty railroad car, from the last parts of their trip and returned to the colorless, soundless solitude.
So Mother’s Day, I decided, is the only day that should be differentiated from all the others. I try not to talk to anybody unless I absolutely have to, but on her day, I’d speak to her, and only to her. Actually, if I could’ve I would’ve probably spoken with nobody but mother until the day of her funeral. Maybe I’ve succeeded. The few people with whom I’ve spoken since her funeral were women.
Sometimes I get the feeling they talk only to members of their own gender, too. They may answer, or respond to, men’s questions—or at least those of their husbands, sons and nephews. Those neighbors and friends of my mother hear the stories of conquests, of wrongs done by bosses and family members, of injuries caused by accidents and fights. But when they say I’m not well, it’s that time or simply I want to lie down only they could understand each other in the way my mother did.
I’ve tried. It’s all I’ve ever known how to do.
