A Second Chance

Misunderstandings have been common. Even though she is my mother, and I am her son, sometimes the gap between us is as wide as an ocean. Clear communication has always been a problem. I love her dearly, and she is an incredible person with a great heart, the personification of  Matthew 25:35, 'when I was a stranger...', but when it comes to making herself understood, it is often a challenge to know what she really means.

This morning it was time to take Pepito out for his morning relief session. The sun was shining, but not into the dark corners of my mind, where the voices of doubt and dismay were whispering their diabolical prognostications. "Oh, that's not possible, Monkkey, you had your day, now it's over. Just move over, and let the world pass you. Atta Boy. Good Monkkey..."

"But Mr. Bluster, " I said, to myself, to the doubting voice. "If I was to put forth a gigantic effort - like they say about faith moving mountains..."

"Over-rated," snickered the voice.  "Now get yourself to the end of the line. Eventually, something will fall in your lap, meaningless as it may be...."

By the time I reached the kitchen where my mother was standing, holding a ripped open envelope, my mood had turned into spilled battery acid. She held up the envelope. I mustered a "good morning," but it had all the of emotion of a robotic telephone voice. I passed pretending not to see the envelope.  I led Pepito to the back door, opened it. He went out, and I followed.

When I came back into the kitchen, there was Mom still holding the envelope. She opened her mouth, but no words were coming out. Her eyes were shut, her face strained to force out syllables. And then, I couldn't help but remember all those times growing up when she stood there about to tell me something that I already knew the answer to, but couldn't spit it out.  

"The thing came for you in the mail," she finally said. "Thing" being a ubiquitous term for something others should fill in the blanks for, because Mom always expected everyone else to know what she was thinking, because that's the way Mom thought, and that so badly pissed me off.

What it turned out to be was a doctor's evaluation of my lab results. Rather than just saying, "Hey, my Doc read your results. All is well," Mom had to waffle and fumble like she does when she misplaces car keys for the eighth or ninth time during a day, or rummages around for her pocket book for her bank card like she's on an Easter Egg Hunt. I admit she's gotten better, but even hunting for the card three times a day as opposed to five or six becomes very old very quickly.

"Mom, communication is very difficult with you, " I said before I could contain myself. "I mean why can't you just say, the results are in, and all is well?"

"Why do I always have to say what you want me to say?" she snapped. Her eyes closed, her body tensed.

"I don't know what you mean by 'thing,'" I said. "I'd just like it if you could be a little more clear - that's all."

She didn't respond. She stood at the counter, fixing a bowl of cereal.  In past times, I would have pressed her until we'd argue back and forth, which would result in a shouting match at the top of our lungs. But for me, these were different times, and I was going to do my damnedest to change. 

"Look, I'm sorry," I said. There was a pause. She clenched her teeth, then turned to me with the ferocity of a cornered animal. "Why is it you're always right, and I'm always wrong? Why are you always putting me down?" she blurted out. 

"I'm offering you an apology," I said. "Why is it you just can't accept it, and we move on?"

We stared at each other long and hard. I was quite pissed at her, as she was probably with me, but there didn't seem to be any reason to battle each other anymore. Too much time had passed. There had been too much pain and too much hurt from the both of us towards each other. It was time to learn to make peace.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I really do mean it." 

Her eyes fell to the floor. "I know," she said. I watched her for a few seconds, then I reached forward, and touched her upper arm with my open hand. She forced a small smile, continued to stare at the floor. I lowered my hand to my side, stood for a moment, then slowly walked out of the room.