It Takes An Ocean Not To Break
When I’m sleeping, I remember floating in the world of my mother, in the nectar of her amniotic fluid, learning to breathe. Do you remember? Breathing liquid in and out that, itself, would form your breathing lungs. There were no lines between me and the liquid or me and my mother; there were no distinctions at all. In my mother. Not yet other. The only way to remember is to forget. Like being absorbed in the liquid of an intense activity or when you’re dreaming, gone, lost in reverie. Being away—that’s the way. Back to mom.
When I’m sleeping, when I’m writing, when an image seizes my attention, when I’m lost in thought, when I’m helping someone else, when I’m engaged in conversation and trying to communicate the unspeakable, it’s always and ever my mom’s 26th birthday—January 17th, perpetually.
I imagine her then. I see her cooking at the stove, minding my brother, talking on the yellow phone. I see her looking in the mirror, placing her hands on her bare pregnant belly and feeling me thrash about, an impatient fish. Nervous. Of course she had her fears and doubts. But I like to believe, too, that she imagined herself a magical goddess with the eye of the future opening inside her. I bet she whispered I love you. I bet she was pretty too. The most beautiful woman in all the land for whom every star poked its ambitious hole in the dark.
I wonder about my mother’s mind. The way her memories descend in the theater. How they form odd juxtapositions of disparate reflections and dreams and thoughts and ghosts. Does she remember walking to church when she was a little girl? In what way? Does it make her cry or smile or both? I remember that little girl walking to church. She was light with youth and heavy with brooding about the likes of salvation and the simple shock of being a girl in the world. I remember when she learned to walk and her unquestioned adoration of my nana. When I’m sleeping, I remember too when my mom floated in the nectar. Hiroshima. She clenched her tiny fists. Nagasaki. My fetal mom winced.
She is made of brittle bird bones, origami, and bombs. Born of her explosion, I’m always in her ocean.
Still a teen, when my first love ended and I hung up the phone, I fell on the floor and cried. When my mom went down as well and wrapped her arms around me, I cried louder and louder. I return to this memory often because it’s so two and confused and whole. I don’t fear shipwreck; there’s relief in drowning.
For her birthday, what can you possibly give the woman who gave you the gift of being somebody? The only thing I can imagine ever truly wanting from my kids is a subtle nod or a wink, just the tiniest acknowledgement that maybe I did right by them. So here’s this. Happy birthday, mom. As long as I’m a me, there’s a grateful fish swimming in your sea.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Reader Comments (12)
This is a pretty swell wink.
Happy birthday, Mama BHJ. Thanks for the boy.
this paragraph......is a true gift
...."Still a teen, when my first love ended and I hung up the phone, I fell on the floor and cried. When my mom went down as well and wrapped her arms around me, I cried louder and louder. I return to this memory often because it’s so two and confused and whole. I don’t fear shipwreck; there’s relief in drowning.".....
Your mother as a life preserver....for a moment....providing relief from a storm. A gift. A true gift to remember and honor such a thing.
Happy Birthday BHMamma...thanks for putting up with the kid long enough to get him to where he is now. We like him alot.
Thank you, Jon..my best gift ever from you is your written word. You transport my mind to many memories of what you and I have shared along the way. My arms will forever go around you, hold you tight and keep you swimming....love to you, Mom
Jon's Mom: what kdiddy said .... thank you for giving the world your fish!
Sigh.
Dear god, please let my baby love me this much when she's grown up. And please please let her love me enough to know.
This made me cry.
Happy birthday BHJ Mom.
Best birthday gift ever. Love you. I mean, I love your words.
This is just so pretty.
Beautiful, and timely.
"There's relief in drowning"-beautiful.
I pray that my mother know that I feel ever grateful for her presence and impact on my life, like this. YOU have a way w/ words that smacks me square in the jaw and reminds me to staft writing my houghts again. I have been frozen so long w/ thoughts in my head, but now, I will go write.
Happy birthday to your mom. I am so glad she made you.
PS please forgive typos. Stupid Crackberry.
testing testing, one two three.
holy shit, this post is amazing.
testing testing four five six.