I’m sitting at Samovar in the Castro. Trying to write as prolifically as I can for this year’s NaNoWriMo novel. I have been here since 3:00pm and its been slow going. Should I really be taking time out to write a blog post?
Absolutely not.
But there are some times as a writer, or really, as anything, anyone, that we must take time out to respect what is happening now. Our plan must fall apart, because they are so completely unnatural.
As I sat here describing a memory, bubbling up from the depths of my protagonists subconscious, an old woman with a wooden cane walked in. This woman was not a cliché. She was grace embodied. She smiled lightly when she spoke, looking everyone in the eye, and connecting with each of them.
“A table for four.” she said to the waiter. “we’re having a little birthday”.
And in her words, as they escaped from the subconscious of her mind through the channel of her voice, and into the world, I saw my mother.
The woman turned and smiled at me. It was a smile my mother had given to me. I felt a pang of sadness, I smiled what I felt, and looked down to my keyboard. Memories came flashing, as fast as a thriller shot sequence, but as bittersweet as the tea I was drinking, and I willed myself to keep breathing.
A birthday, at Samovar, with my mom. That thought is calling the tears. How incredibly sweet that would be. How much I wish I could have that moment. To show her this place, the friends I have made since moving to San Francisco. She never got to see my apartment, see me meet and befriend the people I had considered immortal heroes, or read my novel. And that makes me sad. Immeasurably sad. The sadness rests on a layer where there is nothing else. It cuts so deep into the onion of my heart.
I miss her. I miss her so much. I wish I could have more memories. I would work any job, go to any school, read any book, to have a chance to have a birthday tea one day, here, at Samovar.
I know she is here with me, and that her love and energy exists in this very moment. I know that the tea party happening across the room, with the beautiful old woman who reminds me of my mom, is just another indication of the existence of our togetherness. So many moments in life can remind me of her. Of times we have shared together. But when I really need it, when I am in a funk, she is there, just as she has always been, to remind me just how important these alive moments are.
Back to my novel.
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{ 3 comments… read them below or add one }
Thanks for sharing your feeling Christian, it help me sharing mine.
I am sitting here in my Napili office, first day at work, not very busy (at all) wondering if I even should be here, what am I doing here, tears pouring every time i think of Julie (which is quite often), going through my mail, reading a card sent from a patient of mine (and Julie’s too) sending her condolences and telling me how much she will miss Julie.
I have been an emotional mess lately and don’t understand why it is happening now. I still find difficult to accept she won’t be back.
love you
marco
I so appreciate your honesty. I lost my mom two years ago and my heart still aches for her. I find myself attached to women in her age range, looking for mom. There aren’t words to comfort you because it is so hard, this thing called loss. Just always acknowledge her and that you miss her. Never shove it down. Always allow it to come up.
Marco, I don’t know you but I admire you so much. I watched the video you made about Julie and I thanked the Lord/ette that she had you in her life. What a gift!
And I hear your a great chef as well. Bravissima.
Christian, I so often have the same experience you so eloquently describe in your blog….
Many times I’ve imagined my Mother’s old age in a vibrant older person as they walk into the room.
A couple of times she visited in my dreams. Dreams so real, I would swear she actually was present.
You are a gifted writer. Keep on writing………