happy birthday mom

i can't remember how old you'd be

Hi Mom,

It is the eve of your birthday. Can I be completely honest with you? I can’t remember how old you’d be turning. I want to say it’s 65. I really want to, but what if it’s 64? Or 63? I want to message Dad to ask - but maybe we can keep me not remembering your age between us. I feel like you’d roll your eyes and laugh. It’s Saturday night, anyways.

What am I doing in on a Saturday night? I know you’d ask me. Specifically, you’d say - “What is my beautiful daughter doing inside on a Saturday night?” Well - let me tell you. I lit candles, made my favourite chicken wraps, did an everything shower, moisturized with a hyaluronic body serum and Vitamin C+E body oil. And then I heated up milk on the stove, and added some honey that my sister bought from the farmer’s market.

“Ask Dad to make you hot milk and honey when you can’t sleep.” You’d always tell me.

I didn’t expect to cry while writing this, but it’s also making me laugh because I think these under-eye patches are catching my tears instead of letting them fall.

“In my next life, I’m coming back as the youngest child.”

Do you remember this conversation you had with your best friend? You both were going through treatment, and I had come down the stairs to hang out with you in my bathrobe and slippers. I was frazzled because I couldn’t figure out what time to book a manicure and a bikini wax. Your best friend started laughing.

“In a robe and slippers, too. That’s how I want to live my life.”

There are so many things I want to ask you, Mom. There are so many things I want to tell you, but so many things you already know. Where does the time go?

I’m 31 now. I am going to be 32. In 8 years, I will be 40. And 8 years ago, I was 24. And that was the last time I saw you. Well, in this universe anyways.

I wonder where you are now. If you’re sitting on the couch beside me. I wonder how old you are. Souls are ageless, and when I dream of you, you are mostly younger. In my last dream, you were wearing white and we were running and laughing through the streets of Florence. We had a dinner reservation - and you asked me if I knew where we were going. I was so proud to tell you - yes. I did.“Florence is so easy to navigate.”

It was always your favourite city. But I wonder how you’d feel about it now. The overcrowding made it lose it’s magic for me a little bit, but I know you’d probably find your one or two peaceful pockets. You’d become a regular at a cafe somewhere, they would love you (even though you can’t speak Italian either - like mother, like daughter), and you would never leave.

I so badly wished I could talk to you in Rome. I so badly wished I could ask what you would do, what you would say. I just know that“What a comedy of errors” would be the first line out of your mouth. I know that you’d think that PN was one of the best looking men you’d ever seen. You wouldn’t tell me this - in fact, you’d probably warn me about getting involved with an older man with a baby and a girlfriend - but there would have been some part of you that, I think, would have understood why I did what I did.

You would have rolled your eyes at Peter Pan. Oh my god, Mom. You wouldn’t be able to stand him. The Manager, either.

“And God forbid there is ever a war - these are the men who are supposed to fight for us?” That was one of my other favourite lines of yours.

But the Man at the Front - that’s who you would have liked the most. That’s who you would have had a soft spot for. “He took care of my daughter.”

I can feel your words run through me.

Let’s go to Holt’s today. Let’s go to Bobbi Brown. Let’s pick out a new shade of lipstick for your birthday.

Do you remember our trip to Paris in the spring? The time me and you spent together was my favourite. It was me, you, Dad, and my university boyfriend at the time. Me and him kept fighting (lol). You had to separate us one afternoon. You said, “Emily - let’s go to Le Bon Marché.” And in our long coats and scarves, we went to the Chanel counter, and you bought me a lipstick. I still remember the shade. Shade 437 (it’s discontinued - but someone wrote an entire article about it). I remember thinking that I could do this forever. Aimlessly stroll around high end department stores with my mother, who was starting to feel like my best friend.

“Your mom always thought you were too good for him.” Dad told this me a few weeks after you passed.

You never let him think that, though. He (my university boyfriend) really loved you, but I think you knew that our relationship would run its course.

Can I tell you something else?

I, 3 dirty martinis in (more than 2 is never a good idea) - told OFM that you don’t like him. I kind of regret saying this, because there is some sort of level of darkness to tell an ex that your dead parent that he never met, doesn’t like him.

He was kind of taken aback - but can we blame him?

“Wait…your mom that has…passed?”

I shrugged and said - “Yes. That one.”

Here’s the thing. I can feel when you worry about me. And maybe it’s my own intuition, my projection, or it’s a mix of my anxieties. Or maybe it’s both. But I know you see things. And I think it worried you. I think you knew how we both get swept away, carried away, and caught up in memories. To the point where we both can lose control of situations. And I think that scared you.

Because it scared me, too.

At your funeral, your friend reminded us: “Rose loved a redemption story.”

You did. And you still do. And sometimes, I wonder if that’s why it’s hard for me to let go of certain people. When you see the good, you see their soul, you see their beauty. And it’s hard to un-see, especially when they look into your eyes, stroke the palm of your hand, and let you cry to them - even after you tell them that your dead parent hates them after 3 dirty martinis.

Maybe I was wrong, Mom. Maybe you’d like him, just the tiniest bit. Maybe you’d root for him, but you would keep it as a secret to yourself.

Or, maybe you wouldn’t.

I told him that I missed him the other night. And there was no other pretence behind it, other than - sometimes, you miss someone. And sometimes, you just want to let them know.

“I miss you as well. And our people-watching evening antics.” He messaged back.

Well. At least we’re on good terms. Lol.

What would we do after Holt’s, Mom? Maybe we’d go to the cafe for lunch. Do you remember when they had the best caprese sandwiches? It was just that thin slice of sourdough. And we’d get freshly squeezed juices. Dad loved the beet one.

Mom, are you sad?

Do you wish you could have one more? One more dinner with us? One more Christmas, maybe. Dad makes the best salmon now. He puts pomegranate seeds on it, with this yogurt dressing.

Do you regret anything? Did you say enough? Did you love enough? Did you live enough?

I’m getting sleepy now, Mom. I’m getting so sleepy.

But I’ll talk to you in the morning.

I love you. Happy Birthday.

Xo,

Emily