Odd Observations from a Skewed Perspective

Follow suit. Especially bathing suits.

Deathbed confessions

“Who the hell is this woman?” Said my thoroughly strung out brain, even as I was hovering over my mother in her hospital bed. The story that had just bled into my ears painted images of her in ways that could not be unseen by my bloodshot mind’s eye.

I will neither confirm or deny the use of substances at this time, but my mother lay dying and I will apologize for nothing.

My mother had seen the finer end of remission for several years before the cancer reared its ugly head again. She had been active with survivor groups and charities and awareness walks throughout. Vengeance cliche notwithstanding, from resurgence to remembrance, it was a very brief year.

Despite the warning, the end came suddenly with all of the dizzying decision making that comes with it. Once the final decision came to cease life support, we were left there in quiet contemplation. 

Beeps, chimes, wheezing machines and my father besides me begins with, “This one time, me and your mom were fooling around in the back of my car.”

My head lifted from where it hung in my hands. I can only imagine the horrified expression I wore. I am coming to the painful realization of the finality of this situation and now, this? My mother, Catholic school girl (the good kind!), quintessential Latin mother: tough, fair, full of life and laughter. The worst thing she’d ever done was put a tack on someone’s chair in school.

Some days it truly is a curse to have a vivid imagination.

My brother and I exchanged looks. We could say nothing as the memory granted us a glimpse into a woman I knew all my life and knew not at all.

Canoodling (it’s a word, my spell check says so) in the back of a Lincoln towne car in 70s Brooklyn, my parents steamed the Windows a la Titanic. Unbeknownst to them, in their frolicking, the local law enforcement had had just about enough of their shenanigans.

Flashy blue and whites colored their various clothed and unclothed bits a lovely shade of patriotic when Brooklyn’s finest came over the trusty bullhorn. “You got your twenty buck’s worth, now let her out.”

I was aghast for my mother’s sake, ready to rail at some long since retired flatfoot for besmirching my mother’s thirtysome year old honor.

That Catholic school girl turned to my father and said, “Let me out and hand me twenty bucks.”

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