The smell of rain on fresh asphalt marked Mother’s Day night. Mom and I sat in the den reading books through heavy eye lids after a humid afternoon at the Phillies game.
It had been a long day; halfway down the highway to the stadium Mom realized she left our tickets at home. We turned around to face Jersey, and thirty minutes later headed back to the Philly border. We made it in time for the National Anthem.
A lucky day, one could say.
It’s well after 9pm, and Mom eats a bowl of cereal for Girl Dinner. She’s finally hungry after her half finished lunch of fries and cheesesteak egg rolls at the game. Mom’s diet resembles a small child’s, and it’s something I admire about her. Somewhere along the way, most of us forget how to eat.
Mom took a long walk when we got home from the Phillies game. I went on a short run. Same neighborhood, different streets. We’ve both traveled these roads well over a few shared missteps, triumphs, and regrets.
I sit in the rocking chair across from the tv because Mom is sitting in the plush brown recliner. That’s her designated spot. It’s the best spot, and it’s the very least I can give her. I watch her tip the book back upon it’s library-bound tailbone and spoon raisin bran into her mouth. Her pink and white checkered fuzzy slippers rest firmly upon the carpet, and her eyebrows stretch up toward her forehead with every bite. Even from across the room, I can see her eyes scamper across the page.
“Thirty pages,” she’d said that morning. “I must read thirty pages by tonight.”
“Why,” I asked in a non-inquisitive tone as my eyes didn’t leave the page of the book I was reading by a local philly author.
“Because it’s due back at the library this week,” she said. Mom works at the library, and can’t have overdue books on her card because in her words “it’s embarrassing”.
I like watching her eat her raisin bran and read. I think and am sure I’ve never felt that content.
“Psssst,” I say, wanting to be a part of something.
It takes four more exponentially exaggerated “PSSTS” to get Mom’s attention, and when she does look up, all she does is furrow her brow at me before returning immedietaly back to her book.
“Why do you like to read?” I ask. It’s one of those questions that has an obvious answer, but one you will deeply regret never asking once they’re gone.
“I like stories,” Mama said. “And I like to learn new things… why do you?”
I’m four years old again when I smile and say, “me too.”
We return to our books in unison. I look up again, to capture a moment in time I never want to forget.
Mama, for once, still.
And content.
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