Today I sent out the first of Mom's death certificates.
    It wasn't until the shock of the act hit me that I realized by avoiding death business I'd been avoiding the finality of Mom's death. Surprising how powerful are the symbols of death.
    Today is also my father's birthday. I find myself blearily imagining the two of them celebrating at Patty's Elsewhere Bar. A foamy Brandy Alexander, one of my mother's two favorite after dinner cordials (the other being Creme de Menthe), sits before her, assembled in a decorative, fluted glass. The bartender is an eternal expert; this drink matches the extravagence of the Brandy Alexanders prepared at the Top o' the Mar: The cream has been whipped; the liqueur is dribbling through the cream. A maraschino cherry decorates the top. Not at all like the quotidian concoction two of my sisters and I received a few weeks ago after having instructed the second of two clueless bartenders on what the drink contained.
    What is my father having? I'm not sure. As a kid on Guam I didn't notice what he drank until he devolved to mixing what he called "rock gut" with milk, equal parts, in tall water glasses at home; I only noticed the fancy bottles I used to collect. With any luck, he's drinking for enjoyment, now, rather than anesthesia.
    I'm sure they're celebrating, as Mom and I took note of his birthday every year and sometimes celebrated it. It was impossible not to. He always got such a kick out of his birthday, so much so that he used to crow that the 29th of every month was his birthday; reminding us that, every four years, February was included. Mom would fix him a fresh orange and coconut cake, the pieces swimming with juicy orange sections. I wonder what they'll order in the dining room of the Elsewhere Bar. Wish I was there.
    I wonder, too, how I'll react to Mom's birthday this year. I won't be able to help noticing it...she was a birthday whore, as well. I come by it naturally. I hope, by that time, if I shed tears, they will be tears of joy that I knew her, that I loved her, that she gave birth to me; not these damned watery fits of grief.
    Salute your lives here, Mom & Dad. If you hadn't lived, your descendants wouldn't have, either.
    Later.
- posted by Gail Rae @ 13:04   email  this post