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Description
It was Mother’s Day. My brother Steve pulled the Blazer into the Cracker Barrel’s parking lot; it was just him, our mom, and me. We’d been hoping that Sis, Daniel, and the kids- still babies at the time- could have joined us, but they were outta town visiting Daniel’s folks. Sissy promised to make it up to Momma later; that just meant more eating out for me. We didn’t have any hope that my other brother, Randal, and his youngins coming because it was hard to get in touch with them.

It was Mother’s Day and Steve was treating Momma (and me, the underage accessory) to lunch after he got outta church. Me and Mom, we didn’t go to church much back then, we still don’t.

It was Mother’s Day and everyone and their grandmother seemed to be in that quaint Cracker Barrel. We’d have to wait at least 30 minutes to be seated, was that okay? I wandered away from Momma- she was ogling some fancy angel figurine- back towards to colorful toys. I always found myself amused in the toy section of any store (and I still do; guess I never grew up, huh?) and Cracker Barrel’s old fashioned trinkets and doohickeys and massive collection of Beanie Babies were no exception.

It was Mother’s Day and my Dad was nowhere near my mind, not even when we were finally seated in the smoking section. Momma and Steve were too engaged in their conversation to go play checkers with me in the rocking chairs by the fire place, so I had to amuse myself. That was nothing new. I played that little game provided at all the tables, the one where you jump the colored pegs, trying to “prove” your intelligence by getting’ rid of as many pegs as possible. I’d never gotten it down to the sacred one before and only got it down to two, back long ago when I was ten or so; most of the time I only could get it down to three.

It was Mother’s Day when the waitress took our order; I can’t remember what my mom or brother got, but I know what I got… the same thing I always get: chicken tenders, fries, and a Coke. I was barely paying attention to what Momma and Steve were talking about, drifting in and out of the conversation like a jellyfish in the tide. At least I was until the topic turned to my Dad.

It was Mother’s Day. Why were they reminiscing over the “good old days”? I don’t recall much from that time, just vaguely remember that we were happy. Memories of my Dad were (and still are) like Polaroids that didn’t develop right, like someone placed their thumb on the still developing photo and blocked out my Dad’s face. I just have little snippets of time that don’t seem to connect. I know about stuff that happened back then ‘cuz people tell me it happened, but my mind just can’t bring that information forth on it’s own. I could look at a picture of my dad and know who he is, but I don’t remember what he looked like. I remember he bought me two dogs: a puppy (a mutt to be exact, so ugly he was cute) that I named Mikey and a stuffed animal (a noble Siberian Husky) I named Balto. I also remember he was a big man with a contagious smile. I remember that he loved me. All other details are lost to me. I can’t even recall his funeral where I met, for the first time, my other half-brothers from his previous marriage. And it’s because I can’t remember that I hated when they started talking about him.

It was Mother’s Day, that bright sunny Sunday we were supposed to use to honor her, the still living of my parental units, she that was still among us. They had no business- no right!- to bring him into the conversation, to talk about him so casually. I felt my appetite slip away as I tried and TRIED and TRIED to force my mind to give me a story about him to share. Nothing. They laughed over some story about how my Dad used to tease me for falling into the toilet when I was two, how he always set time aside to play with me, to read to me. How he always made my brothers and sister feel like they were his own children even though they were from my mom’s previous marriage. How he was the core of our family’s happiness back then. I had fallen silent, shaking, trembling, but they didn’t seem to notice. I tried to keep myself from crying. Then came the clincher. You probably don’t remember this Na, but this one time your dad… I excused myself to use the restroom; I couldn’t take it anymore.

It was Mother’s Day and there I was, in a bathroom stall, fighting back tears over a father I had lost some eight years prior. I tried to compose myself, wiping away tears with tissue paper, before returning to the table. Momma threw her arm across my shoulders when I returned. Let’s go home. I nodded. The ride back home was long, quiet, reflective.

It was Mother’s Day when I went into my closet and took out my Dad’s old Tarheels jacket, slipping it on despite the fact it was too big for me. It still smelt faintly (so very faintly) of cigarette smoke; I hated that smell on it’s own, but on this jacket it was comforting. I curled up on my bed and snuggled with Balto. Momma asked if I needed anything; I told her I wanted to be alone.

It was Mother’s Day and I wanted to wake up from this nightmare. I wanted to wake up and run to my parents’ room and crawl into bed with them, waking him up to comfort me. He’d ask me what was wrong and I’d tell him I’d had a terrible dream that he had died and I couldn’t remember him. Then he’d laugh that wonderful, alive laugh and call me a silly girl, but he’d hold me close nonetheless and tell me sill stories until I fell asleep again, no longer scared. But there was no waking from this reality. My father was dead and would always be dead. And I would always have very few memories of him and would never be able to reminisce over his life like my mom and siblings could. It just wasn’t fair.

It was Mother’s Day, but that didn’t matter. It would always be unfair.

Description
It was Mother’s Day. My brother Steve pulled the Blazer into the Cracker Barrel’s parking lot; it was just him, our mom, and me. We’d been hoping that Sis, Daniel, and the kids- still babies at the time- could have joined us, but they were outta town visiting Daniel’s folks. Sissy promised to make it up to Momma later; that just meant more eating out for me. We didn’t have any hope that my other brother, Randal, and his youngins coming because it was hard to get in touch with them.

It was Mother’s Day and Steve was treating Momma (and me, the underage accessory) to lunch after he got outta church. Me and Mom, we didn’t go to church much back then, we still don’t.

It was Mother’s Day and everyone and their grandmother seemed to be in that quaint Cracker Barrel. We’d have to wait at least 30 minutes to be seated, was that okay? I wandered away from Momma- she was ogling some fancy angel figurine- back towards to colorful toys. I always found myself amused in the toy section of any store (and I still do; guess I never grew up, huh?) and Cracker Barrel’s old fashioned trinkets and doohickeys and massive collection of Beanie Babies were no exception.

It was Mother’s Day and my Dad was nowhere near my mind, not even when we were finally seated in the smoking section. Momma and Steve were too engaged in their conversation to go play checkers with me in the rocking chairs by the fire place, so I had to amuse myself. That was nothing new. I played that little game provided at all the tables, the one where you jump the colored pegs, trying to “prove” your intelligence by getting’ rid of as many pegs as possible. I’d never gotten it down to the sacred one before and only got it down to two, back long ago when I was ten or so; most of the time I only could get it down to three.

It was Mother’s Day when the waitress took our order; I can’t remember what my mom or brother got, but I know what I got… the same thing I always get: chicken tenders, fries, and a Coke. I was barely paying attention to what Momma and Steve were talking about, drifting in and out of the conversation like a jellyfish in the tide. At least I was until the topic turned to my Dad.

It was Mother’s Day. Why were they reminiscing over the “good old days”? I don’t recall much from that time, just vaguely remember that we were happy. Memories of my Dad were (and still are) like Polaroids that didn’t develop right, like someone placed their thumb on the still developing photo and blocked out my Dad’s face. I just have little snippets of time that don’t seem to connect. I know about stuff that happened back then ‘cuz people tell me it happened, but my mind just can’t bring that information forth on it’s own. I could look at a picture of my dad and know who he is, but I don’t remember what he looked like. I remember he bought me two dogs: a puppy (a mutt to be exact, so ugly he was cute) that I named Mikey and a stuffed animal (a noble Siberian Husky) I named Balto. I also remember he was a big man with a contagious smile. I remember that he loved me. All other details are lost to me. I can’t even recall his funeral where I met, for the first time, my other half-brothers from his previous marriage. And it’s because I can’t remember that I hated when they started talking about him.

It was Mother’s Day, that bright sunny Sunday we were supposed to use to honor her, the still living of my parental units, she that was still among us. They had no business- no right!- to bring him into the conversation, to talk about him so casually. I felt my appetite slip away as I tried and TRIED and TRIED to force my mind to give me a story about him to share. Nothing. They laughed over some story about how my Dad used to tease me for falling into the toilet when I was two, how he always set time aside to play with me, to read to me. How he always made my brothers and sister feel like they were his own children even though they were from my mom’s previous marriage. How he was the core of our family’s happiness back then. I had fallen silent, shaking, trembling, but they didn’t seem to notice. I tried to keep myself from crying. Then came the clincher. You probably don’t remember this Na, but this one time your dad… I excused myself to use the restroom; I couldn’t take it anymore.

It was Mother’s Day and there I was, in a bathroom stall, fighting back tears over a father I had lost some eight years prior. I tried to compose myself, wiping away tears with tissue paper, before returning to the table. Momma threw her arm across my shoulders when I returned. Let’s go home. I nodded. The ride back home was long, quiet, reflective.

It was Mother’s Day when I went into my closet and took out my Dad’s old Tarheels jacket, slipping it on despite the fact it was too big for me. It still smelt faintly (so very faintly) of cigarette smoke; I hated that smell on it’s own, but on this jacket it was comforting. I curled up on my bed and snuggled with Balto. Momma asked if I needed anything; I told her I wanted to be alone.

It was Mother’s Day and I wanted to wake up from this nightmare. I wanted to wake up and run to my parents’ room and crawl into bed with them, waking him up to comfort me. He’d ask me what was wrong and I’d tell him I’d had a terrible dream that he had died and I couldn’t remember him. Then he’d laugh that wonderful, alive laugh and call me a silly girl, but he’d hold me close nonetheless and tell me sill stories until I fell asleep again, no longer scared. But there was no waking from this reality. My father was dead and would always be dead. And I would always have very few memories of him and would never be able to reminisce over his life like my mom and siblings could. It just wasn’t fair.

It was Mother’s Day, but that didn’t matter. It would always be unfair.