Memories
The day has risen overcast and threatening.
And in a few, I'll be taking dad to the cemetery for a Memorial Day mass. But first, flowers must be purchased.
For mom's grave.
I don't understand cemeteries.
OK, I do; that's where all the bodies are buried.
What I don't get is the allure to go to them. To look at a stone, engraved with a name. To decorate them with flowers.
My mother is not at the cemetery. Yeah, her remains are there. But she isn't.
I think I'd rather the mass be said in the church - the one she helped build with money and very strong opinion - because that is where I feel her the most.
But memories on this Memorial Day are for the living. And that's why I'll be there for my dad. And stand on the wet grass looking out at a cemetery filled with silk flowers, pinwheels and plants. Headstones of marble and granite.
In my head, my own memories of mom and me. And here, too:
First grade and I sit in the varnished oak school desk, the one that opens up so you can stash your books in a cubby underneath; the one that is part of three more, all in rows that are screwed to the floor. Two lines of oak runners, so there's no moving around.
And I have to piss.
I raise my hand, but the nun doesn't bite. Too close to lunchtime, she says. I fidget, raise my hand again.
No, she says. Hold it.
And I can't. and I'm angry. So I unzip my pants and relieve myself. I remember the yellow rivulets of water streaking down the aisle, trapped by the oak runners that held the desks to the dusty wood floor.
Screaming, the nun sent me to the office. Mom was called from work. She had a look that told you just how much trouble you were in; hers was off-the-charts angry.
"Did you pee on the floor?"
"Yes. But I asked if I could go."
"You asked?"
"Yes. Twice"
The nun and the principal looked at each other, then looked at my mother, who was now beyond furious. At them. But she always had a way of composing herself. And saying exactly what needed to be said.
"One piece of advice," she said. "The next time this kid raises his hand and needs to go to the bathroom, you'd better let him. It means he has to pee.
"What were you people thinking?"
The story got put into the memory rotation around our house, around reunions. Nobody could believe that I had the nuts to pee on the floor, without peeing my pants. That I actually whipped it out and pissed on the floor. In front of a nun and everything. There was debate.
She never would say anything. But she always looked at me with a wry little smile and always winked. It was her way of saying that I was one pain in the ass.
But I was her son. And not willing to compromise.
Just like her.
And in a few, I'll be taking dad to the cemetery for a Memorial Day mass. But first, flowers must be purchased.
For mom's grave.
I don't understand cemeteries.
OK, I do; that's where all the bodies are buried.
What I don't get is the allure to go to them. To look at a stone, engraved with a name. To decorate them with flowers.
My mother is not at the cemetery. Yeah, her remains are there. But she isn't.
I think I'd rather the mass be said in the church - the one she helped build with money and very strong opinion - because that is where I feel her the most.
But memories on this Memorial Day are for the living. And that's why I'll be there for my dad. And stand on the wet grass looking out at a cemetery filled with silk flowers, pinwheels and plants. Headstones of marble and granite.
In my head, my own memories of mom and me. And here, too:
First grade and I sit in the varnished oak school desk, the one that opens up so you can stash your books in a cubby underneath; the one that is part of three more, all in rows that are screwed to the floor. Two lines of oak runners, so there's no moving around.
And I have to piss.
I raise my hand, but the nun doesn't bite. Too close to lunchtime, she says. I fidget, raise my hand again.
No, she says. Hold it.
And I can't. and I'm angry. So I unzip my pants and relieve myself. I remember the yellow rivulets of water streaking down the aisle, trapped by the oak runners that held the desks to the dusty wood floor.
Screaming, the nun sent me to the office. Mom was called from work. She had a look that told you just how much trouble you were in; hers was off-the-charts angry.
"Did you pee on the floor?"
"Yes. But I asked if I could go."
"You asked?"
"Yes. Twice"
The nun and the principal looked at each other, then looked at my mother, who was now beyond furious. At them. But she always had a way of composing herself. And saying exactly what needed to be said.
"One piece of advice," she said. "The next time this kid raises his hand and needs to go to the bathroom, you'd better let him. It means he has to pee.
"What were you people thinking?"
The story got put into the memory rotation around our house, around reunions. Nobody could believe that I had the nuts to pee on the floor, without peeing my pants. That I actually whipped it out and pissed on the floor. In front of a nun and everything. There was debate.
She never would say anything. But she always looked at me with a wry little smile and always winked. It was her way of saying that I was one pain in the ass.
But I was her son. And not willing to compromise.
Just like her.
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