I’m doing this for Mom not you
It’s not a surprise to see Rory’s black SUV sparkling under the late morning sun, already at the graveyard when I pull up the next morning.
Iamkind of surprised to see her and her daughter waiting for me by the car.
Today’s somber mood is a huge fork off of how my life has been lately, but it’s to be expected, what with my dead mom’s birthday and all that.
My thighs twinge as I climb out of my Nissan, and I force the reminder of Wilder out of my mind, as I’ve gotten so good at doing lately.
“I hit traffic,” I tell my sister, as close to an apology as I can offer for not being as punctual and perfect as she is.
“All twelve cars on the road at once?” she asks, but there’s a softness to her face, like she’s being gentle on me. Whether it’s from our fight, or the significance today holds, I’m not sure.
My eyes sting when I see her outfit. It matches mine. A silk, colorful robe, made in Thailand, just like the one that’s inside Mom’s casket.
Even Rory’s daughter is wearing one, though she wasn’t there the night we got ours. Her grandpa brought hers back from his trip to Thailand this past winter.
The Weiss women all match today.
Mom’s never met her granddaughter. She passed before Rory and Wyatt were even officially back together, and long before they managed to get pregnant. She’s never even been here to visit, but that’s one thing I can’t really blame Rory for.
I haven’t been ready either.
Today Mom would’ve been fifty-seven.
It’s been two and a half years without her, and if I can go through with this visit there’s a lot to catch her up on.
Rory links an arm through mine, her daughter in her other arm, and gently leads the way down the cement path, toward the far end of the cemetery. Sun on my face, wind blowing back my curls, I feel Mom in all of it.
My niece points, speaking a language for infants, as a butterfly passes overhead, flitting and crisscrossing by us.
Underneath some shady oaks and a bushy cedar lies our mother.
I take my niece, bouncing her in place—trying to focus on her and not the headstone in front of me—as Rory unpacks the bag she had on her back, laying out a large blanket for us to sit on next to Mom’s plot.
Once Rory is seated, her robe splayed out around her, I hand her daughter over and join them, plopping down with far less grace. Mom wasn’t pretentious. I don’t think she cares that when I cross my legs you can see the shorts I have on under my robe. But Rory’s ankles are crossed, demure as ever.
“How do we start?” I mutter, scratching at a design in the blanket rather than look up and see the reminder.
Like I needed one.
If you’ve ever loved someone and lost them, you know.
You always fucking know they’re missing.
“I’ll try,” she says, sniffing and clearing her throat. “Hi, Mom. Happy birthday.”
I have to stop air from coming in or out so the sobs don’t come with it.
Biting my lip until I can steady myself again, I look up at her headstone.
Laura Lee Weiss
Mother, lover, friend
Fuck cancer
I didn’t think the company would actually putfuck canceron the headstone, but Rory can be pretty convincing, and that was one line she, Duke, and I all agreed on. We all thought Mom would’ve agreed.
