King Diana

So my mother has gone to Guatemala for a whole month. Have I mentioned this? (If you follow me on Twitter, I mentioned it once, maybe, I think.) I tend not to get how big certain deals are for a long while, though, so for now, I have nothing to say about it. My little sister went, too! That’s something! …And nothing again. Except that I wish I could have gone.

I gave my room a superficial pick-me-up today. There’s still things on the floor, but they’re few and they’re not junk. I’ll just pick them up later. Plus, instead of vacuuming, I figured out that—holy butts—I am free. Let’s go outside. And off I went to Panera Bread. Before I ordered a soup, however, I said, “Wait. You’ve just been walking in the hot sun for 20 minutes. Also, you kind of left the house without even considering how hungry you are. You’re not hungry.” I then walked to Henry’s, a farmer’s market, and got some ~RICE DREAM~ which is like ice cream, but made of rice and also dreams.

Barnes and Noble is very near (okay, kind of [all right, it's another 10 minutes away]) to it, so of course I strolled in. OF COURSE. I got very excited looking through all the books. I remembered I had bought a book on writing creative nonfiction that I have been ignoring. Thus, I bought a book of short stories by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, to read and with which to complete an assignment in the writing instruction book that deals with analyzing first liners.

Then! I bought a journal! Not for hand-crafty artsy stuff, because I know, I figured out, I fail at that. Just for writing in. Not a tiny notebook with lined paper, no no; it’s a HUGE book with BLANK PAGES! I thought it would give me less feeling of restriction and less feeling of “Crap, now I soiled all over this cute, neat book with my ugly handwriting and stupid words.”

I was so happy walking back to the bus stop. Why? Because I can write! ON THE BUS! That’s pretty much the only time I can concentrate: when I ride the bus. Except while I was having fun writing (LESS FEELING OF RESTRICTION/FAILURE: ACCOMPLISHED!) the bus driver stopped, about an hour away from my house (an hour by bus) and said that this was her last stop. She did me the favor of driving me straight to my usual stop, though. So nice. I got a little sad that I wouldn’t have that extra hour to write because I would have to go home and… wait. What do I have to go home and do?

INTERNET. The answer came to me like a girl running home to sit on her computer. (That’s pretty quick, let me tell ya.) But I don’t have to do that. I can write at home, too! For an hour! For TWO hours, even!! THREE?!

FIVE. For five hours a day, I will not use the Internet. The times will be 11am-1pm, 3pm-5pm (This will be easy-peasy with classes starting soon), and 7pm-8pm. The peak hours, I’m thinking. I most likely won’t be writing that whole time, but it’s good to close the laptop every once in a while. (I will be using my time on the laptop wisely now.) Of all the impulsive ideas I have, I think this is the one that could be useful. Also, it’s not impulsive; I’ve been needing it. So, fingers crossed.

My mother came home from work yesterday at 3pm and after telling me about her aching feet, she went to sleep. While a dull pain in her feet or really, anywhere around her body, is normal enough, the time was different. She usually comes home at 2pm, having left the house at 5am. She had worked late.

She woke up a few hours later and invited me to go to the store with her. Her friend’s birthday is today and my mother had not bought a gift yet. It took us a while to leave the house, because her feet still hurt.

“Do they hurt because I’m getting old or because I’m getting fat?” She asked in playful self-deprecation on her way to wash her face.

I touched my hand on her shoulder. “It’s because you work hard,” I said.

Somehow, she cooked a small meal for the family while I was getting ready. (I don’t understand why she cooks—it hurts her to stand for too long.) After everyone ate, she drove herself and me to the store. She picked out a nice gift card design for her friend.

On the way back home, she told me about a conversation she had with another friend.

“I’ll get the gift and pay for lunch,” my mother said to her friend, planning the celebration for the first friend’s birthday.

“How much is the gift going to be?”

“Probably around $20.”

“Well, I’ll give you $20 more so you can get a $40 gift.”

“Sounds good.”

“And I’ll pay for lunch.”

When my mother asked why, her friend said, “Because it’s going to be your birthday, too!”

And it is. Her birthday is on August 1, in two days. By the end of the story, I could tell my mother was flattered. She has friends and family that care about her. We all love her. We all hate that she occasionally brings up the difficult truth that she won’t be around forever. She tells my sisters and me so that we are prepared; a noble gesture, in a way. Still, we hate it.

While we were in the car driving home, I kept going back to the thought of growing old. I never liked the idea before. To be honest, it scared me. Besides imagining there would be a decline in my productivity, every year would mean I was closer to death. (Every minute, in fact, bothered me. I have often wished I could pause my life, even for a few seconds.)

But then I thought of my mother. I am thankful she is not scared like I constantly am. She makes me not want to be afraid anymore. She reminds me that life should be calm—even if it hurts, it should be calm. Instead of seeing every second as a second lost, I will see it as another good second lived. There goes one. There goes another. And every birthday, I refuse to let pass as a year closer to death; instead, it will be another good year lived—another happy turn around the sun.