MOM

There’s something about being in the car with her. The way she can cheer me up after a hospital appointment, stop for McDonalds and get me chicken nuggets. It seems like her Toyota has fostered so many of our memories together.

As I grow older, I lose out on many of the moments we’ve shared.

I miss long drives with her, monday night art classes, road trips to the states and spending two hours at target in Plattsburgh at nine in the morning.

I think of all the fun we’ve had, the traditions we’ve started outside of the car. I like to think we have our own “spot” in Brooklyn, Bagelsmith on Bedford. We always get the same bagels, me, a cinnamon raisin bagel with apple cinnamon cream cheese, her, a pumpernickel bagel with jalapeño cheddar cream cheese. We sit in the same seats, take the same picture. I miss going to New York with her.

Somehow, I’m always taken back to the car. When she used to pick me up after a party, and I was giddy with excitement, eager to tell her about all my adventures. Or the morning after a party, getting groceries, sitting in the car telling her all the crazy things my friends and I had done. When, at nineteen, I miss my train and she comes to pick me up at the bus stop.

I think we talk on the phone at least once a day. She’s always the first one I call when I make a new friend, or five, when I do well on a paper, when I find something cool or funny. I have a saved folder on my phone filled with memes and viral videos to show her when I get home. Everything I experience, I want to share with her.

I am my father in many ways. But in so many more, I wish I was my mother. She excels in everything she does. Makes it all look effortless. She’s artistic, creative, skilled, dexterous. Her spider-killing abilities are impeccable, too.

I want to show everyone how special my mother is. I want people to see her the way I see her; how I trust her more than anyone in the world, and have never doubted my love for her or her love for me. But I feel like no one could understand just how special she is because she is not their mother. She, or anyone, wouldn’t do half the things she does for me for anyone else.

Whenever I’m sitting in someone else’s car, I will never get the same feeling as if I were in hers. I’ll wish I was back beside her, listening to the Shrek soundtrack, or switching the cd immediately when my band’s music comes on. I’ll wish I was driving down to Albany and stopping for breakfast. Making jokes while waiting in line at the border. Waiting for her outside the bathroom. Often, because she always drinks so many Diet Cokes. Only to get back in the car. And eventually drive home. Together. Always.

i struggle so deeply

to understand

how someone can

pour their entire soul

blood and energy

into someone

without wanting

anything in

return

-i will have to wait till i’m a mother 

(rupi kaur)