“Hey, Mamacita. It’s me.”
“Oh, my lineage. How are you?”
“Good. So, I had a thought. I’m okay with Justin Timberlake as the new king of pop.”
My mom would most likely agree with me. She’d also grill me on how thorough of a listen I’ve given the new Radiohead songs and the virtues of attending Oldchella in October.
I miss those conversations. A fuckload.
While in Sweden, I worked – like full-time-everything-I’ve-got worked – on facing and harnessing my grief over her passing. I believed that after six years, I really should be over it; I didn’t understand why I wasn’t.
Then it dawned on me one day in AnnaKarin’s kitchen, pouring coffee, observing a murder of crows flying overhead:
Nanos gigantum humeris insidentes. Standing on the shoulders of giants.
My opportunities, my possibilities, the foundation of my being…it all came from her. She was my first and favorite goliath.
My grief had been rooted in profound thanks all along. Although I wasn’t blind to that, I was too distracted by making sure I was checking the appropriate issues boxes to embrace my sadness, to view my mother’s ascension as a celebration of her widely-felt positive impact.
My deepest appreciation for everyone who’s reached out over the years to share how my mom made a difference in his or her life. It’s how her gifts keep on giving; it’s been my foundation for change.
My love to each of you this Mother’s Day.