There should be an organized society for people with dead mothers. A somewhat alienated collective who embrace the fact that there are others like them, where once a year the solidarity of those who have lost their mothers becomes a sanctuary both solemn and celebratory.
Up in arms with friends who have shared the same loss cements a sense of belonging while the rest of the Hallmark world is at brunch with mom. Being without a mother should be recognized as an honor, wistful but triumphant. A moment of quiet understanding should be spent remembering dead mothers after which it should become reverence for the indefatigable strength that is commonly born from suffering.
Losing a mom is a badge of cruel independence that, when properly worn, should yield limitless possibilities and exude the humble beauty that resembles every mother that wishes she was here for her child.
I just boarded the 3rd plane of the day. The 11th hour of travel that included waiting, dozing, standing and queuing up to an endless turnstile of security checkpoints and gift shops. Finally, I’ve made it onto the 3rd plane of the day.
I’m usually in coach when I fly but there were a few times I was brave enough to sweet talk an attendant or just happen to be in both the right place and time and was upgraded to business class. Merely using the word “class” is already indicative of a better world to live in, where the air is sweeter on the breath and the drinks flow in glasses that never sit empty. “Coach” sounds like a fancy little word used to disguise the word “economy”. Sigh.
So, I’m in coach, in the window seat with two fine folks next to me. The back of my seat is being kicked about once or twice every minute. A child in the seat ahead of me is crying about something he keeps explaining through sniffles and snot snorts, words I cannot begin to understand, but he’s qutie upset about something. Mom is sitting next to him holding an infant who won’t stop crying, and dad is sitting next to her just staring straight ahead into the television screen embedded in the seat ahead of him. All at once, there are two kids crying and one kicking my seat and we haven’t even taxied from the gate yet. I’m bookended by beautiful children who are delivering the wrath of hell upon this poor 757.
Traveling has its grandiose moments of enlightenment and awe but it also has situations that test the very edges of one’s patience and self-control. Traveling is the ultimate exercise of human existence. I love it. I hate it. I can’t get enough of it.
I walk. Either to school or to the bathroom or to the end of the line. I drive. Whether it’s to work, to the supermarket or to the hospital. I sit. In front of the television, in front of the computer, in front of the world.
Passports should be dilapidated and dog-eared. Tan lines should be erratic and the hat you’re wearing should announce where you’ve been or where you’re about to go.
I go to work and I forget. I forget there’s a magnificent and mysterious world on the other side of a boarding pass. It now occurs to me that what makes travel “so hard to do” is making the decision to do it.
I love the taste of American convenience and a full refrigerator, a clean bathtub and wide, open, paved streets. Appreciation for the choices, fortune and beauty of America is never as full-blooded until I return home from somewhere far away.