She got me. Again.
Nine years after her death and Ma is still getting the last laugh.
I lost my keys today. Another reminder that the acorn does not fall far
from the tree, that her blood still runs through my veins. The fear of becoming my mother became reality
today when I lost my car keys. We searched everywhere: the five feet from
car to meter; the 20 feet from meter to restaurant; the entire restaurant. I apologize to the patrons who got the space
beneath their feet examined by three frantic women –my friends-- for far longer
than is humanly comfortable. And more
apologies to the dry cleaner, in front of whose shop I was parked, who came out
to help us look, under the car, over the car. The keys are gone.
It is payback. All
brought on by my own less-than-kind mischief, I must admit. Ma was constantly
searching for her purse with such ferocity, such vehemence, always insisting
someone took it. I admit it, my
siblings and I used to hide it from her.
Never for very long, it was just a way to assuage our own lost patience
at hearing her unremitting questions and accusations. But the venom rising to the surface from Ma’s
core at such an alarming rate meant this was no laughing matter, never to be
jested about. That purse of hers represented some deeply held secret, perhaps an
unconscious guilt for the pilfering of her siblings’ inheritances, or maybe it simply
held her checkbook.
“Where’s my purse?” she would ask at least three times
through any meal or outing.
While I do believe in aliens, I know it was not the work of
them. That is unless they are working with Ma. Not that this would
be their idea. She probably shamed them into assisting her. Or
bombarded them with guilt until they acquiesced? That’s why I know it was
her… she, who could turn good wine rancid with a look… she who could take down
the strongest of men one cell at a time, until they were puddles at her feet,
never knowing how they got there.
Ma’s blood courses through my veins (though cleansed through
fire, purification, and therapy) carrying the genetic seed of pathological
lunacy, which has settled into my psyche as the constant worry about losing my
keys. Ma is here in me and she is laughing.
My friend, who kindly drove me across town to pick up my
house keys from my son and then back home to get my spare car key (did she not
notice the anxiety rising in me as I loaded myself down with more keys to
lose?), asked me later why my mother couldn’t help me locate the lost
keys. Help, I said? This is the woman who got her kicks out of
giving me onesie footie pajamas every Christmas (well into my 20s) and forcing
me to model them for her. She was not about to help me find my keys when
it was she who helped me lose them.
Ma will always be within. She gifted me life.
So, I must thank her for that. And I thank her for her infinite lunatic
antics that continuously provide me fodder for the stories that accord belly laughs to my
friends and family. Who is laughing now?
P.S. I’m sorry I hid
your purse. Now please give me back my
keys.
First of all, I love that you started this post in a light-hearted way by referring to her still being able to make you laugh. Even after all these years. However, there is nothing quite like that irritated feeling you get when you lose your keys and have to "tear the world apart" looking for them. They need to come up with a better way to solve this problem.
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