Today you can write about anything, in whatever genre or form, but your post must mention a dark night, your fridge, and tears (of joy or sadness; your call).
Saturday night, October 25, 2014. I should be happy. right? It’s Saturday after all! Well, according to the Bay City Rollers, I should be ” dancin’ to the rock and roll” or Elton John, I should “Get about as oiled as a diesel train.”
Instead, I’m up late, even though it’s been a long, tiring week. My daughter visiting with the grandchildren was wonderful, but also so tiring. Am I getting old or what?
Laying on the sofa relaxing, I turn on the TV, and once again try to watch “The Dead Zone” with Christopher Walken. I really do like that movie, but, for some reason, it puts me to sleep every time now. I wake up after the movie is over. I don’t remember what was on then, but I get up, go to the bathroom, and walk into the kitchen.
I see out into the scarcely visible backyard. Is there a moon tonight? I don’t see it. Maybe it’s a new moon or a thumbnail moon.
I hear the refrigerator running, the humming of it and the sort of ticking sound it makes. I wonder what that is. Is it the ice maker? I hear the ice drop, and a few seconds later the water runs to refill the ice tray.
Standing at the sink, I get a drink of tap water, and remember the events of the day.
I chuckle softly once about the sour cream/buttermilk debate, and remember going outside and the tears I shed. I knew at the time I started crying it wasn’t about the sour cream. It was about one of my kids going through a hard time. I remembered coming back inside and saying to my daughter (now a mom and she always tells me, “Now, I get it.” about being a mom and how it feels), “You NEVER stop feeling your kids pain. Never.”
I start to tear up and remember the sour cream debate, and another thing occurs to me. Why did I not realize this before? Was this feeling there and I just didn’t recognize it? Was it covered up from my other feelings for my kid going through a hard time?
Even though I still have tears in my eyes, I snicker, once, and then realize – it wasn’t about the sour cream, and it wasn’t ALL about my kid. It was also about the fact that the one person who could straighten us all out wasn’t here to tell us, “I’ve used both at different times.”
Now, more than a few tears come, blurring my view to the obscured backyard, lit only slightly by the street lamp through the large maple tree blocking it.
It’s been six and a half years, and most of the time, I don’t think about it much. But sometimes, often caught off-guard, I miss my mom insanely, as if she had just died yesterday. Why do we miss people madly just after they pass and for months after only to somehow “get over it” – seemingly for a time just to have it smack us unsuspecting at the oddest moments?
I cry more, and wipe my eyes, and sob, and say aloud to the sleeping house, knowing full well it isn’t about the silly debate, “Mom, I wish you here to verify this!”