Ralph
For the majority of my childhood there was a dead rat mummified in the ceiling above my bed. I had no idea until my parents tore down a third of our family home to reveal its perfectly preserved corpse. It looked like it had been there for a while – it was dusty and all one shade of mottled charcoal. The contractor left it there for a while – the house mascot. I believe they called him Ralph.
I was pretty unfazed by Ralph. I never heard him in his life, and his death looked pretty peaceful – like he was taking a nap after a rich meal, which is exactly how I hope to die. My mother, on the other hand, was absolutely horrified. She doesn’t do well with creatures under a certain size, and especially not in her home. My nonchalance revolted her; but I quite liked feeling like there had always been something overhead – even if it was rotting.
We all have a Mother. She nags us and makes us cry. She passes down her broad hips and accompanying body issues. She will always have an opinion on how to wear our hair. But no one has a Mom as cool as mine.
I’ve known for a while that my Mom is amazing, but recently for Mother’s Day she visited me in New York. Unemployment had me down, and her own life made mine look more structured that Hilary Clinton’s pantsuits. It was a great time for her to visit. We both needed fun and love.
That Friday, she visited a former colleague in Connecticut while I trolled determinedly for some one to hire me. My attempts whoring my resume were wholly fruitless compounded by a leering wino in Central Park who told me I’d make a great Baby Mama. My Mom’s old friend had in fact become old – further amplifying her fear that she would “die alone and in poverty.”
That night we drank heavily.
We found a sweet little place in the East Village where Gin blurred with White Wine. Life was looking up for us both. On the way home I suggested we go out dancing with the fearlessness that only comes with booze paid for by someone who loves me. Oh how foolish I had become to think she would pass up that opportunity.
We went to Beauty Bar – a New York establishment. Themed with 1960s beauty parlor paraphernalia, you can get a manicure and a martini at happy hour. As the overly tanned GoGo dancer’s pastie wiped across my face, I looked up past the 1970s pornography to the glowing face of my Mother. Her smile could not have been brighter.
I know that she misses me in New York. I know that while she loves seeing me happy, she hates seeing me far. I know that she wishes she could be with me – keeping watch. But some part of me enjoys having her far away. I like that in order to see me she has to drop from the sky. I like knowing there’s something overhead.
