3 Mothers Days back, she was still alive. I was still here, looking at a grey zone of emptiness wondering what’s there to live for, having recently lost love, having recently lost faith, trust, human connections, touch; I was here, but different; I was in a deep grief I was being rejected repeatedly by fate – but she was alive. I was a little oblivious to that.
Jason Porath’s second book was about to release, another depressed man. How do I know so many depressed people? Why can’t we all get together and solve each other’s many problems? That is a question for another day.
I had preordered Tough Mother for my grandmother, as a Mother’s Day gift- only one gift that year and joked to my mother you can have it when she’s gone. I meant I don’t care what you do, when I’m gone and soon. But as fate would have it, Didi died within a year of that. I felt rejected again and by death. She barely got to read the book. But in my mind, my memory, her arthritic gnarled fingers and eyes went over the cover, the art inside the first page and the stories she coveted.
Community sharing is how we have always done gifts in our family. We have worn each other’s clothes, grown up on hand-me-downs and hand-me-ups, borrowed books and careers between mothers and daughters, sisters and nieces. When someone loses weight, there’s always someone who gains just enough to grab her clothes. “Your earrings are so pretty” means she would take them off and leave them on my dresser. Careful with your compliments or you’ll end up with too much. There’s someone who wants what you don’t, loves what you hate, eats off your plate, nibbles on your snacks.
…
Jason drew Didi and me from this photo I sent him. A photo in which she holds me, steady from running sideways into the garden, she’s telling me something, muttering. A photo in which Didi doesn’t make eye contact with the camera, wears what she always wore something torn and soft, loose I can feel on my skin even today, while doing a million chores around the house.
And I can’t be bothered to smile, distracted. In a skirt that doesn’t seem right for my mood.
Jason added a note, contrary to the popular hashtag (the future is female) it is more true to my life- “the past was also female”.
That year is gone. My mood though still here.
I am still distracted. I want to run sideways into the green, where I’m no longer rejected. I want to leave, but to where my grandmother would hold me.
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