Birthday Remembrances
My birthday is almost here again. I don't tend to think of it as my birthday until I reach the hour I was born, for some reason. There's something about a birthday for me that's always been special but somewhat solemn. I guess it has to do with the memories of former birthdays, spent often with people I love. Birthdays spent with smiles, with my mother who has always been so wonderful, and family friends, always with lighted candles.
But there were also birthdays spent in the shadows of other, less savory events. Birthdays like my sixteenth, the day that we got a phone call telling us my second mother had fallen into a coma that morning. We went to Olvera Street that day and had a nice time, my mother and I, but there was an unspoken worry between us. We both knew - knew what that awful certainty that we've shared several times now, unfortunately - that it would be the only coma necessary to make way for Gayle's end. And how we loved Gayle. I prayed silently that day that Gayle would not die on my birthday. I almost hated myself for such a vanity but I couldn't help it. And damn if that woman didn't wait for my birthday to end; she died very early in the morning on December 18th, the day after my birthday. I would still swear that she waited. That woman never forgot my birthday while she lived.
Those were hard days that followed. The other day I was smote by a memory of Gayle's funeral, when her eldest daughter tried to sing and couldn't. Her daughter was a lovely singer and had been so sure she would be able to sing as a sending-off, but tears are not conductive to vocal efforts. She forgot the words. Her voice was so small. Trying to sing that damned song "The Rose" that Bette Midler does so well. I can't listen to that song to this day, can't even think about it without tears. I hear Dottie trying to sing it instead. I hear everyone at the funeral start to cry with her, almost in pity for her, for all of us who were left behind. We were all like children then, lost.
I remembered vividly the moment when I couldn't bear Dottie's singing anymore, when I had looked over and seen my mother crying beside me, my mother who so rarely cries. I began to look around just to avoid it. And then I saw Jonathan. I hadn't seen him since we were both pretty small kids but I had somehow recognized him. He had grown so handsome and was further accented by a gray suit. When I turned I saw his face twisted carefully and turning red, and something about that moved me. I moved to him and hugged him, and we stood there together. And it was good to cry together. And at once I felt very young and very old.
For weeks afterwards there were bouts of tears. I remember having to excuse myself from classes a few times because I just couldn't keep them back. It was so hard. I could hear her last words to me in my head over and over again, and I can hear them now just the same: "You're beautiful. You're smart. You can do anything." I was battered by those words. The faith that woman had in me! I hadn't realized how sure it was. I hadn't thought to miss it until she was gone. I have missed it ever since.
But she made me appreciate more what I had, and what I have. I still cry for her, and my grandmother, grandfather, and aunt who've joined her. I cry like a child though I am now twenty six. I have a notion that I will cry for them my whole life, always a child, forever young and awed by the mysteries of living.
But they have helped to teach me to laugh, and to love, and to appreciate the people around me. They have helped me continue living. They have helped me to refrain from giving up. How I wish, how I wish they could be here now! How I wish they could come to my party, so they could be with me, and I could introduce them to all my friends. I wouldn't dare ask for gifts from them. They were my gifts.
Everyone who has deigned to be in my life as a friend, or a lover, or a close family member - those who have spent the time, the energy, the blood - I know that you are gifts to me. I have had wonderful teachers who have shown me my blessings. I hold you in my heart, even if you don't realize it. I will hold you at twenty six, at forty, no matter how many years pass because that is who I am...and at least, after this last year of such struggle, I have come out with at least that much.
But there were also birthdays spent in the shadows of other, less savory events. Birthdays like my sixteenth, the day that we got a phone call telling us my second mother had fallen into a coma that morning. We went to Olvera Street that day and had a nice time, my mother and I, but there was an unspoken worry between us. We both knew - knew what that awful certainty that we've shared several times now, unfortunately - that it would be the only coma necessary to make way for Gayle's end. And how we loved Gayle. I prayed silently that day that Gayle would not die on my birthday. I almost hated myself for such a vanity but I couldn't help it. And damn if that woman didn't wait for my birthday to end; she died very early in the morning on December 18th, the day after my birthday. I would still swear that she waited. That woman never forgot my birthday while she lived.
Those were hard days that followed. The other day I was smote by a memory of Gayle's funeral, when her eldest daughter tried to sing and couldn't. Her daughter was a lovely singer and had been so sure she would be able to sing as a sending-off, but tears are not conductive to vocal efforts. She forgot the words. Her voice was so small. Trying to sing that damned song "The Rose" that Bette Midler does so well. I can't listen to that song to this day, can't even think about it without tears. I hear Dottie trying to sing it instead. I hear everyone at the funeral start to cry with her, almost in pity for her, for all of us who were left behind. We were all like children then, lost.
I remembered vividly the moment when I couldn't bear Dottie's singing anymore, when I had looked over and seen my mother crying beside me, my mother who so rarely cries. I began to look around just to avoid it. And then I saw Jonathan. I hadn't seen him since we were both pretty small kids but I had somehow recognized him. He had grown so handsome and was further accented by a gray suit. When I turned I saw his face twisted carefully and turning red, and something about that moved me. I moved to him and hugged him, and we stood there together. And it was good to cry together. And at once I felt very young and very old.
For weeks afterwards there were bouts of tears. I remember having to excuse myself from classes a few times because I just couldn't keep them back. It was so hard. I could hear her last words to me in my head over and over again, and I can hear them now just the same: "You're beautiful. You're smart. You can do anything." I was battered by those words. The faith that woman had in me! I hadn't realized how sure it was. I hadn't thought to miss it until she was gone. I have missed it ever since.
But she made me appreciate more what I had, and what I have. I still cry for her, and my grandmother, grandfather, and aunt who've joined her. I cry like a child though I am now twenty six. I have a notion that I will cry for them my whole life, always a child, forever young and awed by the mysteries of living.
But they have helped to teach me to laugh, and to love, and to appreciate the people around me. They have helped me continue living. They have helped me to refrain from giving up. How I wish, how I wish they could be here now! How I wish they could come to my party, so they could be with me, and I could introduce them to all my friends. I wouldn't dare ask for gifts from them. They were my gifts.
Everyone who has deigned to be in my life as a friend, or a lover, or a close family member - those who have spent the time, the energy, the blood - I know that you are gifts to me. I have had wonderful teachers who have shown me my blessings. I hold you in my heart, even if you don't realize it. I will hold you at twenty six, at forty, no matter how many years pass because that is who I am...and at least, after this last year of such struggle, I have come out with at least that much.