I would have liked to meet your mother
All the experiences of his life can be grouped and divided. There are those that occurred before his mother’s death and those that occurred after. That the categories of his life circulate about this single event is not a secret to others or to himself. He is aware of how many times he interrupts a story by saying, “that was before my mother’s death” or “my mother had died by this time.” But he can’t help it. It is simply the easiest way of conveying the context of his experiences, even though his listeners have no idea how this event changed him or what the context implies.
We are sitting across the table from each other, strangers at a dinner party. I’m enraptured by his animated storytelling, distracted occasionally by my own clumsiness. I’ve already dropped food on the table and twice scraped my plate with my knife to produce ear-piercing shrieks. Is it the wine? I’m distracted by the delicious bites, and the pottery plates, and the way the faces around the table glow with good food and candlelight. But always, my attention returns to him.
His face is familiar (and I rarely remember faces). So familiar that I begin to ponder those theories that connect familiarity in this life with shared experiences in past lives. The notion is silly but compelling, and I choose to believe in it for the moment, if just for the sake of believing. I may not believe in reincarnation, but it’s the best way I have to explain this connection with a man I’ve never met before.
His favorite author is Timothy Findlay, whom I’ve had a lingering obsession with. Suddenly I want to reread Famous Last Words, or perhaps just the opening scene. In fact, I realize that I am starving to read everything he’s read. I’m practically salivating over the list of authors and titles that punctuate his conversation.
Give me poetry. I’ve just decided to be an artist again, and I need . . . more words.
I’ve missed the first part of his story, but he is talking about how he wishes his mother had read the book before she died. Which book was that? He would have loved to ask her about how the male author portrayed the female experience and what she thought of it.
I would have liked to know your mother, I think to myself. It’s odd to think this about a person I’ve only just met. Then again, I think this all the time—I would like to know your mother. It seems to me that you can learn so much about a person by meeting his or her mother. If we’re not trying to escape our family, we’re trying to emulate them, probably doing both most of the time.
I know nothing about the way his mother died, but someday I will. For now, I imagine she drowned, communed with the water and accidentally got caught up in the moment. Nothing intentional about it, but beautiful and sad.
We are sitting across the table from each other, strangers at a dinner party. I’m enraptured by his animated storytelling, distracted occasionally by my own clumsiness. I’ve already dropped food on the table and twice scraped my plate with my knife to produce ear-piercing shrieks. Is it the wine? I’m distracted by the delicious bites, and the pottery plates, and the way the faces around the table glow with good food and candlelight. But always, my attention returns to him.
His face is familiar (and I rarely remember faces). So familiar that I begin to ponder those theories that connect familiarity in this life with shared experiences in past lives. The notion is silly but compelling, and I choose to believe in it for the moment, if just for the sake of believing. I may not believe in reincarnation, but it’s the best way I have to explain this connection with a man I’ve never met before.
His favorite author is Timothy Findlay, whom I’ve had a lingering obsession with. Suddenly I want to reread Famous Last Words, or perhaps just the opening scene. In fact, I realize that I am starving to read everything he’s read. I’m practically salivating over the list of authors and titles that punctuate his conversation.
Give me poetry. I’ve just decided to be an artist again, and I need . . . more words.
I’ve missed the first part of his story, but he is talking about how he wishes his mother had read the book before she died. Which book was that? He would have loved to ask her about how the male author portrayed the female experience and what she thought of it.
I would have liked to know your mother, I think to myself. It’s odd to think this about a person I’ve only just met. Then again, I think this all the time—I would like to know your mother. It seems to me that you can learn so much about a person by meeting his or her mother. If we’re not trying to escape our family, we’re trying to emulate them, probably doing both most of the time.
I know nothing about the way his mother died, but someday I will. For now, I imagine she drowned, communed with the water and accidentally got caught up in the moment. Nothing intentional about it, but beautiful and sad.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home