BoomerGirl Diary

Her birthday. The first time I can’t sing to her, take her to lunch, buy her a gift she doesn’t need. I know it’ll be hard. I’m bracing myself, preparing for it months ahead. I’ve got it all figured out. I’ll set the whole day aside. I’ll indulge myself. I’ll eat cake in her honor. A nice cake. Her favorite kind. Chocolate chip bundt? Lemon? I’m not sure. I forgot to ask her. There were too many other pressing questions. Questions I kept trying to squeeze in:

Tell me more about your childhood, and the day your father died. Tell me about the time you saw Frank Sinatra ... and your first apartment with Dad ... and that ugly wallpaper you hated so much. The wallpaper that showed up again in New York, in your next apartment, the one he picked out. What did you do when you saw it? Laugh, cry, scream? A combination of all three?

Tell me again about the day I was born. In an Oldsmobile? In the parking lot of County General? How exactly did that happen? And does it explain my own tendency to be ... shall we say ... overly-dramatic at times? If I’d been born the normal way, inside the hospital, do you think I’d have a calmer take on life?

I asked, she answered. The closer she got, the more I wanted to know. She didn’t mind. She sat there, smiling through her pain, through her oxygen tube. No question was too personal. Nothing was off-limits. My whole life, she told me whatever I needed to know. No holds barred.

In fact, she’s still telling me ... in my dreams. I ask, she answers. In her own way. Wordless now. No call-waiting. I summons her forth. I beg for a visit. A sign. Anything. Sometimes she makes an appearance. She smiles at me, a peaceful smile. Otherworldly. Pain-free. Tell me what to do! I demand. Tell me how to survive this. Tell me how to bring you back. She gives me a hug, she touches my shoulder, she’s gone again.

Sometimes, most of the time, she’s plain out of reach. Out of town. Out of here. It’s okay. I understand. I do. She always did like to stay busy.

And so, on her birthday, I’ll eat cake, but I won’t blow out the candles. Some candles burn out on their own. On her birthday, I’ll put on her best jewelry, the double strand of pearls, the diamond earrings, the stunning wedding band. I’ll parade down my little street in her most elegant dress, unfurling a banner with her name in giant, gold glitter. On second thought, maybe I’ll make my sons carry the banner. I’ll be too busy singing that Van Morrison song. A personal anthem of mine. It spells out her name gloriously. G - L - O - R - I - A.

We’ll probably get a few stares, a few complaints. Disorderly conduct. Extreme weirdness. Too bad. There are people in our neighborhood, I won’t mention any names, you know who you are, who despise displays of any kind. I suggest you go away that day. On the fourth of June, we’re throwing a noisy birthday bash. The guest of honor? She can’t make it. But I’d like to think she’ll be there in spirit. She’s already in our hearts ... and in my dreams.