Unless

Below is the essay I read at the Listen to Your Mother Twin Cities show on May 8th 2014. It was a wonderful opportunity to share an very private experience with lots of wonderful guests.  Enjoy!

Unless

By Laurie Lethert Kocanda

May 8, 2014

Listen to Your Mother Twin Cities

She looks likes you, this stranger. Same conservative dress, same comfortable shoes, same short haircut. Even walks like you: careful and slow. I stare at her, maybe a little too long, but she doesn’t notice. Doesn’t notice the obvious longing I feel when I look at her. When she glances my way, I smile and turn away quickly because I don’t want her to know what I’m doing: pretending she’s you. Pretending she’s my mom.

I walk behind her into the grocery store, blurring my eyes just a bit so that what I see reflects your presence even more. I’m trying to remember, to feel like I’m with you again. I’m not exactly following her, but I am pacing myself in hopes we converge near the end of the produce section.

I see her wedding band and wonder if she has kids, grandkids. I wonder if they know how lucky they are to have her. Alive and mobile. I want to speak to her, say something. But I’ve nothing important to say, really. I just want her to hear a few kind words; something that tells her she’s special.

Our carts bump. “Oh, excuse me,” she says, surprised. “No problem,” I assure her. “I needed something to wake me up.” My words fail to communicate any real sense of kindness, though I’m hopeful it shows in my smile. She grins back at me, repositions her cart, and heads off toward the bakery.

I don’t see her again until I’m back in the car. I wave as I pass by her in the parking lot. As she disappears out of sight, a shadow of shame moves over me like a hard-earned hangover.

I am a cheat. 

The last time I saw your face was just before we closed the coffin at your funeral mass. I kissed your forehead and touched your hands; neither felt like you. Cold and hard, the exact opposite of what you were in life.

It was me who picked out the clothes you were buried in. I brought them over to the funeral home the very day you died. I picked the collarless blazer you bought when we went shopping many years ago, the blue one with gold buttons and flecks of purple and pink. The casket hid your shoes, so I settled on your blue flats—well worn and comfortable.

My friend Janelle did your hair, curled back with a soft wisp of bang over your forehead. I regret not being there. We planned to bring some wine along with the curling iron, offer a toast to you, but I got cold feet when the time came. I’m sure she talked your ear off without me.

I apologize for not visiting yet. Seems easier for me to find you in that grocery store stranger than at the cemetery. It’s not that I don’t know where you are buried. I will never forget seeing your coffin as we left the gravesite, sitting all alone next to an empty tent with empty chairs on a still empty vault. I craned my neck to see you for as long as I could, until the grass and trees and cars got in the way. Until my gaze moved from the rear window to my kids, who will never get to know their grandma as adults.

If you are at the cemetery you’re trapped, beneath the earth and alone. I think of that when the weather is at its most extreme. If you really are there, you would be cold in winter, hot in the summer and alone almost all of the time. The “escape kit” we snuck into your coffin just before closing it would get you nowhere. And so I remind myself that you are not your body. I will not see you again.

Unless.

She looks like you, this young woman with red hair and fair skin. I’m watching her closely and there is no doubt she can see me. As she turns towards me, my gaze deepens. A soft pink fills her cheeks and she knows what I’m doing: I’m cherishing this moment as her mom.

She runs to her sister, your namesake, to share my attention, perhaps divert it in a moment of pre-teen self-consciousness. They start moving and jumping and running together in what seems like a dance, some sweet tandem rhythm only sisters can share.

As they stop to catch their breath, I’m tempted to say something. I want them to know how very special they are. With their dirty hands and skinned knees and unbrushed hair, they are perfect.

Nothing comes out, because there are no words to capture what I’m feeling. And just as I realize this, I see something familiar in them both—a smile, a glance, a laugh. I can’t put my finger on it, but I somehow know it’s you.

You’ve been here all along.