Flapper girl misses her flapper momma...
I dressed as a flapper tonight, donning fringe and a feather boa. I researched my hair, fixing it just so with bobby pins and hairspray. This blonde hair from you, the highlights caught the twists just right. I darkened my eyebrows, a trick you told me as a little girl, since ours were so light.
I made deviled eggs when I arrived, peeling them just as you taught me during so many union functions. I thought of how you would stick your finger into the yolks, asking me if it needed more sweetness or pepper. I assembled them on that craft plate I found at Goodwill years ago, joking that you had made it since it had your name and said 1976, when you took that ceramics class.
The leaves changed so much on our way up to New Jersey. I remember how much you like this season. We never did Thanksgiving or Christmas, but Halloween was your holiday. From dressing up to being spooky, you love this time of year. It's your mother's birthday, your favorite holiday, you taught me how to make those eggs.
I wanted to call you so badly yesterday, with how I passed the clearance test for Fidget's sister. I wanted to tell you how the condo is done. I wanted to take another video to show you what I did. I found a soft, green lamb in the makeup bag you have me as I was packing to be a flapper girl. I wanted to tell you I'd be in Florida soon and we could run around, and laugh, and maybe do the Fresh Market trip again.
Instead, I thought of your hair bows. The many boxes you've sent. That you've only been to our house once. That I have guilt for returning to Maryland. That I struggle with caretaking and my own life. That sometimes, I feel guilty for my own life. But I want to call, tell you what Sadie did, or Fidget, or how Kayrin is doing, or about Bluejay's baby. Or how I am thisclose to applying for licensure. Or how ridiculous the Kangaroo Hut has been.
But I can't call. Not right now. You've left us for the time being, stuck in a body that's fighting off infection. And you'll fight it; we're Hurt women. Nothing can put us under.
And you'll emerge on the other side, confused about missing a week, but glad to have come out of it. And I'll be there, holding your hand, maybe playing Stevie Nicks, and snagging a few sweet potato fries...
... we're the only ones that'll eat them anyway.