June 21, 2012

June 21, 2002

     Ten years ago today, I picked up the phone in my office and a stranger told me that my mother had died that morning, hours before.
     All the troubles of my life—more than a few of them caused by my mother—had not left a permanent stain, and my ennui and melancholy had to borrow their gusto from blundered love affairs or vague memories of my grandmother's bejewelled left hand diving for bass octaves on the piano. Coming up with something to cry about was a job.
     Ten years later, I am no longer 42. I still have the Lubiam sportscoats, and even a pair of Ferragamo slip-ons, I bought during that time. Pictures show my face so narrow and young, my hair (as always) a spiky bedroom crown the color of Hires root beer extract. I was still that person my mother would position in front of her coworkers at Hertz and say, barking like an emcee, "Guess how old he is!"
     Right up to the last minute, I was her baby, the last of four boys—never her favorite, but a proof of her own youth, in Raybans and jeans. I always had the sheepish grin and smooth skin of someone who was only incidentally adult.
     Although my mother acknowledged in me only an echo of the traits of her first and beloved gay son, she had my watercolor sheets expensively framed, and she encouraged me—knowing she had mishandled that previous relationship. I was still a member of her team, even if I wasn't tall.
     Now I have a face full of feelings. No need to stretch for purple sunsets.
     You can't guess how old I am.