Silently or otherwise
There is no deep-seated resentment from my youth,
An uncovered rage from falling off the diaper-changing counter as a baby.
My mom and I don't even fight much in adulthood, but when we do it's like your pot and your kettle butting up against one another for a few minutes, then sighing, crying, and spending an equal amount of time taking responsibility for the argument in the first place.
You can't fight fire with fire.
A pot with its kettle.
A brownie with its own crumbs.
I don't write much about my mom because it's redundant.
It's a story that's already happening
In the sound of my sneeze
-- for instance--
In the shapes of my fingers and hands.
When we're apart, I hardly notice, because her knees are looking up at me every single day.
I could spend pages raving about how loving and supportive my mom is.
I have a hundred appropriate Mother's Day essays.
But I prefer write the stuff I can't quite figure out.
And I can't quite figure out
Why I don't write more about Shelley Coonen Hoben.
Physical likeness aside, I have these traits of my mother's,
For better or worse
Via nature and nurture
That freeze me mid-gesture in recognition.
My sister is the best at identifying it-- she, who has a collection of her own "mommisms"...
The Shelleyness lives, thrives, most fully and frequently
When I sit across from someone, and nod and nod in empathy,
Occasionally repeating back the feelings,
Paraphrasing the sentiments I hear,
And often finishing sentences.
And then there is this need to "jot things down"...
I used to tease her relentlessly about the odd disconnected phrases in her handwriting left all over the house, the product of phone conversations that date back as long as the house itself:
"Ginna, Chicago, 4:00, January, optometrist?"
"Carrot & cream cheese. Discount. Also, gloves."
"Roof repair. Charlie. $$$????"
But, I cannot tease anymore.
My clone-ish handwriting now decorates the notepads and scraps of paper in my own apartment:
"33rd St. and Madison. Birthday. Yoga. What ####????"
"Midsummer and Henry. Cheryl. Shoes?"
"Foot-pack."
The Shelleyness is always with me.
It expands with every year.
And, so, rarely does it occur to me to put the matter down in print:
Why write the thought, when the thought is illustrated in the very handwriting!
Like the way you tell a tale so often that you assume everyone knows it...
Even the people you've just met... Today.
In Reverse Brownie-Crumb Protocol,
Mom has recently taken up some of my favorite practices:
Yoga, creative writing, and a host of my favorite slang.
(That's what I call "the crumbs calling the brownie 'brown'.")
I know I am not as good as she. I'm not.
I'm not pious or nearly as cheerful.
She eats like a little bird and stops after one glass of wine.
I'll never be as selfless a mom as she was.
But ...
I've been a good friend to many people
And I've been told I'm a good hostess and that my home is warm and welcoming.
And when her friends meet me for the first time they are shocked by the likenesses,
Mostly, "the mannerisms!"
And I like that.
Also, cuz she's very pretty.
And I'm very vain.
So that the traits of hers that live within me do no go unstated, I state it here: I'm a lucky crumb.
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| Bakeway is on Broadway in Astoria, right off the Broadway N/Q stop. The coffee is only okay, but this place is really about the baked goods. I mean, it's called Bakeway! 25-21 Broadway, Long Island City, NY 11106. (718) 545-2120 |
