Mom
Call your grandma and wish her a happy birthday.
My mother is waitingon the front porch, a glass of sweet tea in her hand and an apron over her dark skirt. She looks like she walked straight out of a magazine from the 1950’s. Not a blonde hair out of place, her makeup subtle but fresh, nails painted a classy nude, and a demure smile on her lips.
If August’s family didn’t live right next door, I wouldn’t have realized how messy life was allowed to be. That your bed didn’t need to be made every morning. That some days it’s okay to wake up and spend all day in your pajamas. That sometimes cereal is the perfect dinner.
That parents don’t always know best.
I cut the engine and step out into the driveway, still looking as freshly paved as the day last summer the crew came to tar it. “Hey, Ma.”
“Elliott. So good of you to finally call.”
What does she mean “finally?” I was here four days ago.
She holds out the glass, her smile as tight as the bun in her hair. “Would you like a drink?”
“Sure. Thanks. You know you don’t have to wait outside for me, right?”
“Watching you pull into the driveway is one of my favorite sights. If only it happened more often.”
Man, she’s laying it on thick today. Should be a fun visit.
“Come on inside so you don’t catch a cold.”
Says the woman standing on the porch without a coat in the middle of January.
The house is as warm and cozy as a Thomas Kinkade painting—my mother’s favorite artist as evidenced by the sheer number of his prints she has hanging around the place.
The foyer hasn’t changed in all the years we’ve lived here. Still the same maroon walls that feel as if they’re closing in on you. The same welcome mat where everyone is expected to leave their shoes the moment they arrive. Same silver hooks for our coats. The round mirror she inherited from my great-grandmother when she passed.
My mother waits with her arms folded until my shoes are next to Dad’s boots. As if I would forget the rules. “How’s life at the bar?”
There’s always a tiny sneer curling her lips when she mentions my job. A hint of disdain. I bet she tells her friends this is a phase or that I’m taking some time off before heading back to Spencer Jones Investments.
“Work is great.” January hasn’t been very busy overall but giving her anything less than glowing news only invites more problems.
Ammunition for her guilt gun.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Out with Gerry’s husband.”
Gerry being August’s mother. Aunt Gerry is three years younger than my mom, but I swear they were raised in two different families. Where my mom keeps the house tidy, Aunt Gerry thinks life is too short for cleaning. August’s house always looked like a pack of wild apes lived there.
Having grown up with just my parents in the house, I found it difficult to adjust to all the noise.
Now, I’d rather go there for dinner than here.
If Dad is with my uncle, that can only mean one thing. “Is the feud finally over?”
The feud being my father losing his mind when August’s dad had the audacity to hang a Kentucky Wildcats flag on his front porch. Never mind the fact that August’s youngest sister just got into school there. That was obviously completely irrelevant.
Dad insisted Uncle Chip only did it to piss him off. My mother didn’t help the situation, saying she wouldn’t be surprised if one of my cousins stole our Tennessee pennant that’s been hanging from the back deck since I got my acceptance letter, which of course led to Dad buying the biggest, most obnoxious Vols banner, which is currently stretched across our front lawn.
It's ridiculous, but I know better than to add my two cents to family matters.
Mother turns and starts down the hall, past just about every photo of me growing up tacked to the wall in matching oak frames.
