a mother's love reflected

it's amazing to me how fuzzy everything gets when i try to look back on the past. memory no longer has a bright eye but a faded smile, or is it a grimace, a wince, a sober silence locked away while i swallow the key and peer beyond a ship over a foggy ocean?

i'm writing stories of my childhood in working on my next book. stories of my mother's desperate tries to be a good parent, of my desperate tries to be a good daughter, and stories of failing miserably, both her and i. but we were only human, what else could we expect?

i look back and see a mother who was trying so hard to be liked, to be loved, and by people who didn't know how to like or love anything or anyone that wasn't money in the bank, a sly, stiff drink, or another man who knew how to handle his power. she wanted to be loved by people who tried to love, but were just no good at it, so i think they stopped trying, only my mother never seemed to notice. this is the problem with always seeing the good in people.

we hold these truths to be self-evident, but we shield our eyes from the light of that truth and look away when it's too hard to bear. so many times i see a mother who could have changed everything, and refused to try until it was too late, and that last attempt did, in fact, change everything.

but i can't imagine a life that was changed by an action that never happened, a life that never was. i used to dream of a place where my mother was still alive, where she cared more about me than she did about being loved by people who would never love her, where she cared more about herself than being wrong. but i know this place does not exist, and so i stay in the world i've created, here in the now, the present, the life of love and truth and what's real, and right here in front of me.

love never dies. only people do. i love my mother even more fiercely now than i ever have before. in part because i love my self more fiercely now than i ever have before. i recognize that her actions did not reflect her love for me, only her lack of love for her self. i don't pity her, i learn from her, and i love her. as i always have, as i always will.

Birds of My Mother

On Sunday afternoon Erin & I were winding down from a fun-filled weekend. Erin took out the recycling from the kitchen to the bin by our garages while I futzed around in the kitchen with some cheese and crackers. When she returned to the house, she said Baby...there's a bird on the driveway not moving at all. It might be dead.

I didn't really do much thinking, I just walked to the door and asked her to show me where. She pointed the bird out, and I opened the front door to go check it out. I bent down and saw the bird was still alive. I reached my hand out slowly and the bird did not flinch away from me. I felt in my bones that I needed to help this bird.

I called the local animal hospital and they told me to bring the bird in. I grabbed a couple of towels and a paper Gap bag, and went outside. As I approached the bird this time, he began to breathe heavily, look frantically around himself and chirp, presumably for help. Trying not to scare him, I reached with the towel and tried to pick him up. He turned away and began to flutter his wings. He left poop behind on the pavement where he'd just been still. His wings would not work, but he still fluttered them and continued to hop away from me. Just before he reached the fence between our driveway and the neighbor's enclosed grassy area, I scooped him up into the towel and lightly wrapped it around him. I promised him I wouldn't hurt him and that I'd take him to a safe place.

And so I did.

In thinking about the events of the afternoon, it took me maybe 30 minutes to check on the bird, make the call, scoop him up, and drop him off at the animal hospital. When I got home we went about the rest of our evening as if it never happened. And the following morning I couldn't shake the feeling that something divine had happened with that bird.

When I stood at our front door and looked at the bird sitting in the driveway, I felt an immediate connection to him. I also felt an immediate connection to my mother. I didn't hear her voice, but I felt her spirit in every cell in my body. For a split second, I wondered if I should take the bird in and try to rehabilitate it. Until I realized that wasn't me at all, but my mother.

She would have nursed that bird back to health on her own. That's just what she did. And that's just why we had 4 rescued dogs and 8 rescued cats and 3 rescued birds when I was growing up. These weren't animals that she went to the pound or a shelter to save, these were animals she happened upon and couldn't help but take care of them.

Through this experience I get to see how my mom and I are both different and the same. My mom tried to save everything and everyone who crossed her path. Sometimes this was a godsend. And sometimes it was a futile attempt at saving people and things that didn't want to be "saved".

My mother bred me a strong inclination to help others. I have a rescued dog of my own, which we got from a shelter, and 2 rescued cats birthed from a cat I found in the parking lot after a softball game one night 11 years ago. But I've learned that I can't help everyone or everything.

My mother would have taken in that bird and known exactly what to do to get it healthy. That's who she was. Me, I know nothing of how to get an injured bird healthy. I feel like I honored my mother in saving that bird, and honored myself by taking him to a place that could actually help him. This gives me peace.

I don't know why it's important for me to share this story, maybe I just want to share the connection I felt to my mom in order to make it more real. I just know that my "decision" to help happened so fast that I missed the connection to my mother to begin with.

Which is why I'm glad I went back for reflection.

The Visit

Disclaimer: This post reveals content of a graphic and traumatic nature, and may be difficult for someone with abuse in his/her background to read.

I remember my father telling me about The Visit years after it happened. He said The Visit always made him uncomfortable, but he didn't really understand why until he found out why it should have made him uncomfortable. I only vaguely remembered it when he first recounted it to me, but it stuck out firmly in my father's mind more than 15 years later.

The Visit:

Steven showed up at my father's door on a Saturday I was with my father for the weekend. Steven wanted to take me out bathing suit shopping for an upcoming trip. In the back of my father's mind, he thought that was odd. Steven said he promised me he'd take me since my mother didn’t have time. My father asked me if I wanted to go and I shook my head, "No." Steven left quietly, and nothing more was said about it. That’s how everything went in my family.

Until after my mother died. Apparently a lot of things didn't seem strange until after my mother died.

The Incident:

My grandparents took The Family to Hawaii for 3 weeks during the summer between my 7th and 8th grade years. "The Family" included my grandparents; my uncle, his wife, and his son; and my mom, Steven, and me. Except, my mom was pregnant with my little brother, so she didn't go. My grandparents treated Steven and I as a family and roomed us together when we got to Maui. We'd all stayed in a 3-bedroom villa on both the previous islands, but when we got to Maui, the resort we stayed in didn't have a 3-bedroom villa. So Steven and I got our own room.

I was thirteen years old.

At the time, the events leading up to "The Incident" only seemed a little uncomfortable. Steven had made a daily habit of making sexual comments to me, so I didn't find it out of the ordinary for him to do so while on vacation. He was in constant reverie about how "tight" my body was, or how "firm" my breasts were, and often said he could see me in Playboy Magazine in a couple of years. The first time he put his hands on my breasts, it was uncomfortable, but he made it seem almost like an accident. We were passing each other on the staircase at the house, and his arm swung wide. That's when he commented on the firmness. Steven seemed to know where to draw the line, though, and never made comments about doing anything to me, he simply shared his observations. This became normal. And continued while we were on vacation, as long as he was outside earshot of the rest of The Family.

I was thirteen.

Honestly, I don't remember how many nights we were on Maui. I only know that the day after "The Incident" Steven did not continue on with the rest of The Family, but booked a flight home to go be with my mom.

I was thirteen.

I remember thinking that the sky was beautiful as we drove back to the hotel. We'd spent the day doing things people do in Hawaii. When we got back to the hotel, Steven and I did laundry and found a gecko on the wall in the laundry room. I thought it was gross, and Steven laughed at me for being such a girl. As I pulled the clothes out of the washer and flung them into the dryer, he told me to slow down and shake each article out before putting it in the dryer. This would help it dry faster. For a long time after "The Incident" I refused to shake my clothes out before I put them into the dryer.

I was thirteen.

When the clothes were dry, we pulled them from the dryer and took them back to our room. We folded them. I was used to folding his clothes, as I was the designated laundry folder of the house. He, on the other hand, was not accustomed to folding my clothes. He took specific note of how small and cute my underwear were.

I was thirteen.

He took his pants off and put my underwear on. He danced around the room and laughed at how small the front was, and how his balls barely fit into them. I remember laughing, too.

I was thirteen.

I took a shower to wash the day off. After I got out of the shower, he asked if I wanted a back rub. This was not an out of the ordinary idea. Usually it was me giving him the back rub after he got home from his construction job. He'd shower and then lay naked on the bed face down with a towel over his ass. I don't remember how that got started, but I remember that happening almost every day once it did start. I remember wondering if he pushed his penis between his legs on purpose just so I could see it or if it was just more comfortable that way. Of course, I never asked.

I was thirteen.

I took my robe off and put a towel around my waist. I laid face down on the bed, my back exposed. He climbed on top of my back legs and began massaging my back. For a moment, it felt good. His hands stayed on my back for most of the massage. Until they moved lower. He began massaging my legs. He might have even asked me if it was okay.

I was thirteen.

His hands massaged the back of my legs. Started with the calves and then to the back of the knees, and then to the back of the thighs. And then to the base of my butt. He massaged the inside of my thighs, closer to my knees. Then he began to work his way up. My heart pounded. I did not want him to touch me. But he was on top of me and his hands all over me. I did not want him to touch me, but I could not speak. I pretended to fall asleep. I thought if I was asleep he would stop. I was wrong. His hands moved further up the inside of my thighs and his thumbs touched the opening of my vagina. His thumbs went inside my vagina. I don't know how long I stayed still, hoping he would stop and just go away. When I could finally not stay still any longer, I jumped as if being jolted awake by a noise. When I did, his hands jerked back. He stopped.

I was thirteen.

He might have asked me a question. I might have answered it. He got into the shower. He got out of the shower. I prayed he wouldn't ask me to massage him. He put clothes on and said he was going out for a walk. I don't remember the rest of the evening. When we packed up in the morning, he said nothing to me. When we arrived at the airport to head to our final island of the trip, he announced to my grandfather that he wouldn't go on with us, but he needed to get home to my mom. The Family told me nothing else.

I was thirteen years old.

Two years later I told my mother about The Incident. She asked Steven about it and he denied The Incident. My mother and the rest of the family assumed I’d lied in order to get attention.

Nine months after I told my mother about The Incident, four shots rang out, and my mother was dead. After her death, The Family finally believed what I’d told my mother about Steven. And my father reflected upon The Visit.

The Visit was a month or so prior to The Incident. After my father learned of The Incident, he felt guilty. I don’t know when my father was told, but it wasn’t me who told him. I first learned he knew in a therapy session shortly after my mother's death. He felt that he should have known better. He thought he should have protected me. He believed he was a horrible father for letting someone violate his daughter like that. He thought he should have seen the signs and known what was wrong. I have no doubt that his guilt about The Incident is part of what killed my father.

I know the doctors told us all it was cancer. But I saw the look in my father's eyes as he told me he was so sorry for not protecting me. I believe that look—his guilt—invited the cancer in to take over his life. I tried to explain to my father that The Incident was no one's fault but Steven's, to no avail. It took me years of time and therapy and healing to know in my heart that it wasn't even my fault.

My father preferred to bear the burden of blame, believing it was his burden to bear.

If you suspect physical or sexual abuse, talk to your child. Seek immediate professional help at your local police department, Department of Children's Services office, or check out Child Help online.

not always what you think

today i reworked something i'd written a while back. i seem to be doing a lot of that lately. reworking pieces that didn't see the light of day from months or years past because i didn't know what the point was back then, anyway. but today i do. today it makes sense.

it's rare that i think about my mom on the last day i saw her. i prefer to think about all the days before that day because i've worked through most of the pain of that last day and the days to follow. but for the story, today i needed to go back to that day.

here's a little bit of what i remember from way back when...

Come to think of it, it was 7 days from the last time I saw my mom until I found out she was dead. And 7 days from that time until I saw her in the mortuary. I held her hand—no, that’s a lie. You can’t say that you held someone’s hand when they’re dead and they don’t know you’re holding it, can you? When they’re not holding your hand back?

I entered the room. Was anyone with me? Must have been because I remember asking for some time alone with her. My grandmother was skeptical about leaving me alone with her. So was my father, but he might have known better than to attempt persuading me not to. They left the room and a silence I’d never heard before filled the room. My mother was in the room, but there was no laughter. There were no jokes. There were no rules or restrictions. She wasn’t ever going to ground me again or tell me to get off the phone again or tell me anything, ever again.

I went to a funeral with my mom when I was thirteen. This was nothing like that. I thought I was sad when Brandy Fernandez died. But if that was sadness, it felt nothing like this. I’d heard before that when you lose someone you love it feels like your heart is being ripped out. I didn’t believe them until I felt the tearing of my flesh beneath my skin. It was slow and subtle at first, and then like chains and pulleys had been wrapped around it to be pulled out of my chest. I was afraid to look for fear of seeing blood drip from my wounded soul.

Someone—who was it? My father? My therapist? A stranger walking down the street?—suggested I write a letter to my mom and tell her all the things I wished I could have before she died. To share my soul with her on paper, then read it aloud to her; to her spirit. I pulled myself together as best I could and did what I was told. I began reading. One word and then another. I began to sob. I kept reading. Through sobs, I focused on the words on the page and getting them out. And while I read I missed her. I missed my mom. I wanted to hold her hand again. I wanted to feel the warm touch of my mother’s hand just one more time. Without thinking about what I was doing, I reached my hand into her casket and put my hand on hers. This is where I wonder if I held her hand.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

I remember walking in the room now; an image that’s stuck in my mind all these years. Nothing looked liked her except her lips and her hands. I never noticed how much our hands looked alike until that day. But they no longer felt alike.

I couldn’t believe what I felt against my skin. Just like the silence I’d never knew existed, I felt a coldness no living person can ever truly understand. For all of my sixteen years, my mom had the warmest hands I’d ever felt.
They comforted me while having thorns pulled from my shins after running through rose bushes. Dried tears of sorrow and incomprehension with just a hug when she knew words held no meaning. Those hands cared for me more than I ever realized I would miss. And to touch them with no warmth, only ice seeping through her pores, stunned me.

I struggled to breathe for a moment and stumbled away from the casket. I dropped to my knees and sobbed. Loudly. I could think of nothing but the hole in my chest that I could feel but not see.

As I sat beside myself in grief I heard a door creak open. I looked towards the entrance to the room and have a vague recollection of shooing away whoever had checked in on me. I was embarrassed at being unable to hold myself together. I quickly stood up, wiped tears and snot from my cheeks and chin, and then continued the letter from where I’d left off before I’d distracted myself with my mother’s hands.

After finishing the letter, I folded it back up, and tucked it under those cold hands, leaving it to be cremated with her.

Looking back, I wish I’d kept a copy of that letter. At the time I’d been angry that my last moments with my mother had been disturbed, but I said nothing. Instead, I felt cheated and kept it to myself. The last mother-and-daughter moment I would ever have was cut short and there was nothing I could do to get it back.

there are so many parallels between my mother's and father's deaths. and still, they were nothing alike.

Up the Stairs

I recently had a hard drive crash and lost a the last few months worth of work on the book. I'm not dwelling on it, and in fact it gives me a chance to start afresh with a new direction I'm taking. Up until recently, the focus of 7 Days has been mainly on my father and how his death and grieving for him impacted me. That's still a great focus, but I felt it important to introduce some of the details about my mom's death and its impact on me in order to give texture and context to my mind-frame as my father's illness unfolded.

This is an excerpt of a draft I'm working on right now, with those things in mind.

Up The Stairs.

I was the only one who knew whose things were whose. Before everything was cleaned up they had me go back to the townhouse so I could say yes, this was my mom’s, no this isn’t. Steven was in jail and my grandparents wanted to make sure they got everything of hers before Steven’s brother came to get his things. How would he know? His brother had never been to the house in my eight years of knowing Steven.

I remember walking into the house. Coldness overtook me and I trembled at the door. To the right at the entrance were the stairs to the second level. At the top on the left, a door to my mom’s bedroom. Straight ahead, the hallway to my old bedroom. A linen cabinet and closet on the left, just before my bedroom at the end of the hall. It had become Michael's room after I left. He was in that room when all the chaos took place, just two and a half years old.

My grandmother wanted me to get things of Michael’s, things of mine from the bedroom. In order to get there I’d have to walk past my mom’s bedroom. I summoned all my strength. I walked to the stairs and began to climb, one foot ahead of the other. As I ascended, the opening to the lower level became smaller and smaller. And when I reached the halfway point, where the railing met the wall of the bedroom, my legs gave out. I slipped. I fell just one step back and landed on my hands and knees. I was too weak to continue. I sat there and cried until my grandmother met me on the stairs to help me down and tell me it was okay. All I could tell her was, “I’m sorry.”

I felt weak. I felt like a failure. I had been asked to do something, and I had failed. I couldn’t complete a simple task to go up a single flight of stairs and pass a closed door to get to the belongings of my two-year-old brother. I feared they would always see me as weak little Dian, who couldn’t even get halfway up the stairs without falling to her knees.

At times I still regret not going up there. But I couldn’t pass that bedroom. I couldn’t even get half way up the stairs. My father had warned me that the bedroom hadn’t been cleaned up yet. The bedroom had been a crime scene. I told my father I could walk past the room if he closed the door, but in the end, I was too weak. I didn’t have to see anything to know what went on in that room, and I couldn’t bring myself to be on the same level as Steven or my mom when those four shots were fired.

There were no shots fired during the last seven days of my father’s life. But the constant beeping of the heart monitors was enough to drive me near mad.

letter to mom: march 26, 2008

this is a repost from a couple of years ago. i'm writing a new letter later today and thought it appropriate to share this one again, for context and contrast.

dear mom,

my life is so much different from when you knew me. all i could do back then was try to please you. i know it was hard to tell with the running away, the arrests, the disrespect i showed you on a daily basis when you were still alive. but in all that, i wanted you to notice me. i wanted you to protect me. i wanted you to teach me. i wanted you to love me.

we watched baseball together and i learned your love of the game, win or lose. we laughed together and i learned your sense of humor, both filtered and raw. we talked like mother, like daughter, like friends, like enemies, and i learned that nowhere and everywhere was safe within those bonds.

i listened to how you searched for your father's love and never got it because you were a girl. i listened as you denied your alcohol consumption that night you passed out after i tasted your vodka flavored lemonade and watched you pour a bottle of smirnoff down the kitchen sink the next morning. i watched you teach me that appearances are more important than telling the truth. i watched you teach me that telling the truth does no good when the person i'm telling doesn't want to hear it. i watched you teach me that i don't need to tell the truth if people will believe a lie.

my life now does not mirror my life then. my life now only expresses my life then. i've learned so much from your life, from the things you did right, from the things i wish you'd done differently, from the things that impressed me so much that i’d have you do them the same, no matter the consequence.

let me tell you what i remember, so you can see through my eyes.

i love that you took care of me when i was sick, that you came home for lunch to check on me and feed me soup and take my temperature (and probably to make sure i was really there). i love that you took me to dodger games. i love that you got excited at the prospect of talking to steve yeager on kabc radio one morning while getting ready for work. i love that you baked my birthday cake more often than not. i love that you took me to brandi fernandez's funeral and told me that there was never a good enough reason for suicide.

i remember walking down the railroad tracks by our condo and we talked about school and how you were disappointed with the previous year's grades. i told you i would bring them up in the coming year, and you told me you didn't believe me. maybe that would've worked if i believed in myself. but i was relying on you to believe in me. without you, i couldn't believe in myself. the scar from that day is still visible, palpable in my soul, my actions, my heart. i wonder if it will ever fully heal.

i remember sitting on the couch the weekend before you died. pomeranian on one side of you, me on the other. we talked about nothing in particular, but i remember beaming inside...feeling like you finally looked at me like a real person. like i wasn't just your daughter, but someone whose thoughts and feelings you cared about because they were relevant, not because you felt obligated by family relation. you talked to me about your relationship with steven and i talked about life in placement. you didn't judge me, you didn't scold me, you just listened. i will always be grateful for the moments we shared on that couch. especially because they were the last.

i've gone through graduations and first loves, getting hired and fired, moving and moving and moving some more...i've gotten a driver's license, i've bought and sold cars, i've voted...i've loved, had my heart broken and broken hearts...i've lied, i've cheated, i've stolen...i've learned, been humbled, been forgiven...i've fallen behind, gotten ahead, and kept up with the crowd...i've been depressed, overwhelmed and felt like i would never recover...i've laughed, i've shared, i've given everything of myself and expected both nothing and everything in return...all in all, mom, i've lived. and you missed it.

for much of my twenties i resented you for missing my life. for not being here for the big things. you weren't here when i signed my first lease on an apartment. when i got my first raise. when i got into my first car accident. and i resented you for not being here for the little things. you weren't here when i came home from work exhausted after my first real night shift working the counter at mcdonald's when i needed encouragement and a soft ear to listen to all my complaints about why it was so hard. when i bought my first set of couches. when i dropped off my first set of clothes at the dry cleaners. it's the little things i missed that you never got to be a part of.

you used to send flowers to grandma just because. and you took that away from me. you would drop by grandma & grandpa's for dinner on a whim because you wanted to talk about what was going on in your life with them. you took that away from me. you would answer the phone when grandma called every other night just to chat about what little old ladies who play bridge and drink wine all day chat about with their daughters. you took that away from me.

so many nights i had dinner alone and wished i could've invited you over. so many nights i watched baseball alone and wished i could have called you after a great play. so many nights i missed you and your voice and the way you always knew the right thing to say, even if it was nothing at all, and i wished i could call you. you took that away from me. you took it all away by staying.

after you died i dreaded dreaming about you because i hated waking up from those dreams. i hated that the only time i could see you was when you weren't really there. i hated that you left me. i hated that you stayed with him. i hated that he killed you...that you killed yourself. i have no doubt that you didn't point the gun at yourself. but you stayed with him. you knew what kind of man he was: the kind of man to touch your daughter. and if that wasn't enough to leave him, then i guess nothing short of dying in a gun battle in your bedroom was going to do it.

i wouldn't let anyone talk bad about you because you weren't here to defend yourself. i wouldn't even allow myself to openly be angry with you, to openly resent you. but i was angry with you. i did resent you. you didn't protect me, and that made me angry. i expected you to react to steven the way you reacted to grandpa that night you told him off. remember?

i called you after grandpa yelled at me, had me backed into a corner crying, telling me i was good for nothing, that i would never amount to anything, that i would end up just like my mother. i didn't know what he meant; i was scared and confused. i called you and when you got to the house, you told me to go to the car. i sat in the car in the driveway and watched you. i couldn't hear a word that was said, but i saw your head, your hand, your finger swagger in front of him and in my mind i heard the greatest speech anyone's ever given about how wrong it was to treat me the way my grandfather had. i saw only the back of your head and could only imagine the words flying out of your mouth that night, but the one thing i was sure of was that you loved me. that you were protecting me. that you were saving me from everything bad he could ever do to me. from anything bad anyone could ever do to me. that was the only night of my life i ever felt like that about you.

there are so many things i've missed out on in my life because you weren't here. and for the longest time that seemed to be all i could focus on. and at some point it dawned on me that you were human. that you had faults. that just because you were my mother didn't mean that you were supposed to get everything right. that's a fallacy that all kids have about their parents. and it sucks to grow up and realize that your parents are human and make mistakes, too. i know you did everything in your power to save me. i know that if you could've done anything more you would have. and i know that you just didn't have the capacity to love yourself enough to leave him. and i know that because that's the way it was, i've learned from it.

i rarely think about those things anymore, but you need to know that sometimes they come up. that sometimes these things affect me and my life. and that these things do not consume me.

i live near the beach now, me and my two cats. i’m head over heels for my girlfriend. yeah, girlfriend. i guess if you were here, you'd know that by now. i quit my job over a year ago to write and haven't really done what i expected to with that, but i'm still working towards everything i've ever dreamed about. i wish you were here to see it all for yourself, but i accept that you're not.

i guess the whole point in writing this letter at all wasn't to tell you about what's going on in my life, but to tell you how you've impacted it. it's easy to tell you that you made me laugh and that i love you. but it's hard to tell you that i was ever angry with you, that i ever judged you and thought you were a bad parent. and even harder still to tell you that i've forgiven you for your mistakes, as if i have the right to do anything other than that. there were parts of my life that were hell when you were here as well as when you left. and none of it was your fault. it's just the way it was. my life is mine and if i blame you for everything that happened to me, i'd never get to living my life. so at this point, the letter becomes about letting you go.

there's no such thing as jayme ann newkirk anymore. no such thing as jayme ann reid. or jayme ann boland. she's gone and has been for years. the only thing that's left is the memory i hold of you. and that some of that memory serves me no purpose anymore. i've learned from the anger, the frustration, the humiliation, the exhaustion, the depression, and the relief. i've learned from holding on, moving on, and letting go piece by piece. first there were your clothes, then your make up (like i was allowed to ever wear make up), then your knick knacks, and your dishes, your phone (which still had blood on it from the night you died that i never cleaned off or told anyone about)...and the rest are the memories. there are some memories i'll let go of (i won't hash those out again here), and there are some i'll hold on to (hill cows and moo cows, the pout bird, and the look on your face when we saw brian boitano in the red onion all those years ago). but it's all my decision because this life is finally mine. yours is over and that's all you get.

i love you with all my heart. say hi to dad for me.

your beloved daughter

Forget to Remember

Forgetting. It seems to be a recurring theme on this day. Last year on the anniversary of my father's death, nearly the whole day passed before I realized the significance of the date. I wrote a post to reconnect myself, and rolled back the actual publish time to 9:01AM, although I'm pretty sure it was closer to 4PM by the time I even started writing that post.

It's about 9:15PM as I write this post. Odd to say that my father's death seems like something that happened to someone else at this point. Which is true. It happened to him. I just get to live without him. I'm fine with that. And that feels odd, too.

I like the first four years after my father's death much better than the first four after my mother's. I was so angry about my mother's death and I didn't understand so much. The past four years I understand so much more, not necessarily about life (although that's true, too), but about both of my parents.

I understand that I get a choice to be like both of them, either of them, neither of them. I get to choose to love myself more than some guy who will never me because I don't love myself. Thanks mom, for teaching me that one. I get to choose to take care of myself before everyone else (which also goes back to that whole loving myself thing). Thanks dad, for teaching me that one.

I also understand that they were both human. That it does me no good to judge them on the job they did raising me when I turned out just fine. I get that my parents were victims of themselves, and then of others—not the other way around. I get that they did the best they could with what they knew. And I get that I love them, even in their early departures.

On days like today when I've forgotten to remember the significance of the date, it doesn't bother me. Not because the date is insignificant, but because I don't need a significant date to remember either of my parents.

I remember my mom when I laugh. My dad when I build. I remember them when I cook or clean or run or play or read. I remember them when I live my life. Not when a certain day passes me by to remind me that they're not here anymore.

So take that, January 4th, 2006 6:07PM and June 27th, 1991 early AM hours.

Mom's Olay

As I got ready for a client this morning I noticed my face was a little dry. I reached into the cabinet and pulled out a plastic bottle of Oil of Olay and dabbed some on my chin, my cheeks, my forehead, my neck. And then I slipped back in time a little.

After my mom died I took over most of her belongings. It was too painful for her brother and my grandparents to take anything, so they pawned it all off on me, citing that I would be honored to have these little reminders of her everyday. I was sixteen and hadn't yet figured out how to say no to anyone, so I took most of it.

The clothes that didn't fit me I convinced my grandmother to donate to a women's shelter in Los Angeles. I held on to pretty much everything else. Including her make-up and toiletries.

My mom loved Giorgio. But at some point she stopped buying it because the same scent seemed to come out of a little yellow striped can that stated, "If you like Giorgio, you'll love...". Since the can wasn't the real thing (and the smell of it kind of made me sick), I had no problem tossing it into the trash.

She had a plastic bottle of Jafra body lotion, which I used up within the first few months. I didn't relate the smell to just my mom since I've always used my mom's lotion. It was hardly like using my mom's lotion at all.

And then she had a glass bottle of Oil of Olay. Pink glass. Black label. I can hear the sound of the black plastic cap being screwed off the glass top. I can smell the Original scent of creme. I can feel the moisture being locked into my skin after my morning shower.

I don't remember when I actually finished that bottle, because I kept it for quite some time after I emptied it into my pores. It might have been a few months, it might have been a few years. I'm sure I used it long after the expiration date had passed, though, because I remember at one point seeing 04/92 stamped on the bottle. Seeing the date now reminds me of just how long ago that really was.

For a long time I remembered how much I missed my mom, and a moment like this morning where I was taken back to the scent of my mother's Oil of Olay might have sent me into a long list of why it's so horrible that my mom was taken away from me so long ago. But when that moment this morning happened, I simply smiled. I remembered my mom. And I thanked her for my youthful skin. I doubt I would have started using the Olay at age 16 had it not been for her.