A while ago, I posted something on facebook about benevolent nuns (is there another kind?). A childhood friend, who’s discovered, too late, that a wasted life brings regret, implied that I hadn’t experienced adversity, remorse or heartache of any description. He went on to suggest that my head was up my ass because I’m here and he’s there. My feelings were hurt. I’m disappointed still.
My friend was a favorite of Mum’s. She was loyal to his potential, regardless of the evidence that he likely ripped her off at every opportunity. She wrote to him while he was in prison. My mother was a comfort to the incarcerated. It wouldn’t have been a surprise to learn she became a master file cake baker.
So my friend, seeing only what is on the surface, and not bothering to explore what is beneath, thinks I’m an asshole who married better. No one likes him. I do; like my mother, I’ve been convinced of his unexcavated gifts.
I think of her nearly every day, usually more than once. I wish she’d lived to see what home looks like. It’s not her style at all but her influence is everywhere. She’d recognize it. I overheard her tell someone once, “Elroy knows how to present work, she has an eye for it.”
I’ve been struggling. I feel ungrateful. Tonight I looked at the walls and wondered at the accumulation. I wished she could see the work I’ve collected. She’d see the humor in it. She was familiar with benevolent nuns.
