Smells Like Summer

Yesterday morning I awoke to raindrops and grey sky. Memorial Day weekend — it didn’t seem so.

Around 9:00pm I drove.  I ended up near the water, somewhere in Ballard.  The setting sun had lured me.

I parked my car, first, and then my behind, in the sand.  I adjusted the bill of my hat, kicked off my slippahs, hugged my knees tight to my chest, and stared.

Before long, I was studying.

Shadows draped themselves across far-away mountains, more aggressively with each passing minute.  An endless soft blue was blended perfectly into a bold streak of orange and melting into the horizon.  The water, like stained glass, glistened with impressions of yellow, disturbed only by the ripples of skipping rocks; a movement which could be traced to the distant silhouette of a man. Back on shore, flames erupted from pits and smoke dissipated into the surrounding air.

I shut my eyes and inhaled a breath of sooty bonfire, feeling that simultaneously, a giant smirk had crept across the lower half of my face.

I felt good. Really good.

A bit of nostalgia, I suppose; for a time when Summer was not merely a season, but a way of life.  This scene was home.

I relished in it for a minute or two before opening my eyes and hoisting myself from the ground.

A moment of familiarity was just enough.

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For Mom, on Mother’s Day.

A few years back, my mother told me a story about one of the first dates she went on with dad.  She was a college freshman at the University of Houston, and they had planned to meet at the intramural fields early one morning.  Mom awoke hungry, and consulted her mini-fridge, only to find the options slim.  In an effort to quickly satisfy her need for sustenance, she reached for a cold beer.  I’ve never asked this of my father, but can only imagine him to be startled (or perhaps intrigued) upon sighting this raven-haired beauty, strutting toward him, early morning brew in hand, as if it was perfectly standard behavior.

I’ve come to refer to this story as the time mom had a beer for breakfastI love it so much, because it says nothing and everything about her, all at the same time.

My mother is sassy and stubborn – a lethal combination if you ask me.  A known hell-raiser, who puts her efforts to good use, has something to say about everything, and never falls short of proving a point. Insanely intelligent; “Em’s mom” was known among childhood friends as the human encyclopedia.  To this day, she’s the only person I know who finds pleasure in dissecting electronics, simply for the sake of understanding the reassembly process. To deem her independent would be an understatement of the highest degree.  Aside from tending to the family automobiles; she’s always operated under the “do it myself” motto.  A master of mending wounds, both of physical and emotional nature; she’s prevented many an emergency room visit. She’s everyone’s rock, executing daily with grace under pressure, detouring the anxious from fear and worry. Rarely on-time for anything, she’ll always make time for those she loves. Her seemingly serious exterior (or RBF) does not overshadow her giant, genuine heart.  She lives without regret, and hasn’t for a moment, refrained from setting goals and chasing dreams (not even after thirty years of managing the chaos that accompanies raising four children).

Often, people tell me I remind them of her.  When they do, I like to to picture her on that day in ninety-seventy-something; a young version of the awe-inspiring bad-ass I now call Mom.  Truth be told, there’s no individual I’d rather exemplify.

To the most incredible woman I know – I love you, Mom.  Happy Mother’s Day.

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