Hope Rising

My mother declares, “No more darkness.” She reads this blog, sometimes weeks after I post, but still she reads it. “Your last posts are too dark,” she has called to scold me. She’s placing an order for something more upbeat. I laugh at her, and tell her it doesn’t work that way. I tell her that I write what I feel, I write what’s happening. I tell her that it comes from within and right now there’s a lot going on here in New York City, causing me to be reflective. “And besides that,” I reason, “I don’t really think they are dark anyway.” But she’s not listening, my stubborn Texas mother. She doesn’t hear me because I’m not saying what she wants to hear, so it’s as if my lips are moving but nothing is coming out. Growing up, it infuriated me. But now, at 46 years old, I find it endearing when she ignores me and talks over me like I’m not speaking. Because it’s hysterical to me that my mother treats me like I’m still 7 years old.

“I wonder if I’ll get kicked out without my mask.” She needs one bell pepper, she tells me. She’s about to enter the grocery store to get it, and she doesn’t have her mask. She’ll figure it out, I’m sure. She’ll get that pepper one way or another. And I’ll hear all about it later. “Hope. I want to hear hope,” she tells me. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command. That’s the end of it. She hangs up, and I’m smiling.

I’m supposed to be editing something. I settle into my chair with my laptop, but I can’t seem to get going. I can see her disapproving look as the poetry takes root and I get into the flow, checking and re-checking punctuation and grammar. I stop and clear my head, releasing the work. Then I look at it again, with fresh eyes, this time her eyes. “That’s waaaaay too deep, ” I can hear her say, in my mind. With that ‘whyinthehellwouldanyonereadthiscrap’ look on her face. (Mom’s an accountant. All numbers. All the time. She says she even sees them in her sleep.) I’m smiling again, and shaking my head. I talk back to her, alone in my room. It’s no use. I can’t concentrate. And honestly, I don’t really want to.

Opening the hall closet, I pull out my suitcase. There’s still two months to go before I head to Texas for the summer. I pack my swimsuit anyway. First thing in the bag! Everyone who knows me knows that I never do anything ahead of time. Never. I usually throw things in a bag moments before I’m supposed to leave, so this is out of character for me. But I’m feeling something… and now I’m laughing. It’s hope. I’m feeling happy. The sun is shining here in New York City, and we are winning. The virus is retreating, slowly but surely. My mother is out there securing her bell pepper. Light… I see light.

My mind races ahead to summer… to the great loves of my life waiting there. Something is rising, a mixture of excitement and anticipation. Joy. In spite of the times, I feel joy. Music. I need music. “You’d think that people would have had enough of silly love songs…” Paul McCartney. Up goes the volume. I sing. “Some people wanna’ fill the world with silly love songs…” I’m gone, disappearing into the soundtrack of my youth… when I was little and my mother was young. Packing for summer. Planning for the future. Because my mother declared, “No more darkness.” And, God help me, it is so…