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We decide on a Mexican restaurant close to campus. Though the distance is walkable, we both drive.
“Your father brought me here when this place first opened a couple of years ago,” she says as we sit in one of the booths by the window. “I’ve been a regular ever since.”
As if to prove her point, our waitress greets her by name.
“What can I get you started with, Mrs. Richmond? Your regular?”
Smiling, my mom shakes her head. “I’m driving today, so no margaritas this time around.” She laughs, and not for the first time, I notice how beautiful my mom is. She’s aging like a fine wine, indeed.
More than once, she’s been mistaken for my sister. I take it as a compliment.
“I’ll just have a lemonade, and please bring extra guacamole,” she says.
I order a seltzer water as my drink.
“Do you have your food scale with you? I keep a spare one in my car if you need it.”
I wave her off. “I have mine. Why do you still keep a food scale in your car?”
She shrugs. “Habit. I never took it out, just in case.”
I’ve lived away from home for nearly a decade, and she was still thinking of me.
My eyes drop to the pinewood table. I run a finger along one of the fine cracks in the wood. Our waitress arrives with our drinks, which allows me time to swallow down the emotion that’s welled up in my throat.
“How’s work going?” I ask.
She finishes chewing one of the tortilla chips with guac before answering, “So well. The semester is about halfway through, and I’m loving this new group of freshmen. They’re so inquisitive.”
She waves her hands in the air, excitedly.
“But this new research collaboration I’m doing will examine the impact of family structures on the development of children’s social consciousness. Exciting stuff.”
She talks a little more about the nitty gritty details of her sociology research.
“It’s early, so I’m still tweaking the specific topic it’ll address, but I’m looking forward to seeing where this will go. I have a few grad students who’re going to be working with me.”
“I’m so proud of you,” I blurt out.
She blinks as our eyes meet. “That’s supposed to be what I say to you.” She laughs.
“A daughter can’t tell her mom she’s proud of her?”
“Of course she can.” She squeezes my hand and starts to say something, but our waitress is back to take our order.
We decided to order the platter of fish tacos to split.
“Speaking of work, how is the gallery coming along? I can’t wait to see it.”
“Renovations started a couple of weeks ago,” I tell her along with the news that I have at least two artists who will be featured.
“There’s another artist I found through social media over a year ago but I’m having trouble getting in contact with her. Her page has been deleted. But her work was stunning. In a haunting way,” I explain to my mom. “Look.”
I pull up the images I’ve screenshotted. The paintings are all of women of various ages, races, and sizes, but all of their faces are obscured by something. Either their head is down, turned away from the front, or there’s a shadow passing over, blocking their face.
“I couldn’t take my eyes off of these paintings when I first came across them,” I explain.
“Gorgeous,” my mother says in awe.
