Skip to main content

Happy Mother's Day Mom







Happy Mother's Day Mom


All Black is our classic motif, garbing us both, peacoat hugging you as tightly as I ever have, as we strolled up the street to the bookstore. Though we're descended from Latin bloodlines, to me you've always seemed vaguely Parisian, aristocratic and certain of your place in the world.

The phrase, "an iron fist in a velvet glove", has always rung true and resonated deeply with me, for I could relate to it. To this day, when anger grips me and a morbid rose clouds my vision, your reason, love and grace drape over me, reminding me that I am more than a ronin.

We'd enter the cafe, and the tea would already await, scented with lavender, spiced with lemons and enhanced by mint. Ice cubes jostled selfishly for space, causing the glass to sweat and the taste to spread.


"Dear, go get your books."


And I'd sprint, a singular focus planted in my mind like a homing beacon, rushing, as I always am, through the task so that I may to return to my lighthouse beaming eternally through the gloomy fogs of life, whether perched regally at a chestnut table or anxiously sitting at home, awaiting my permanent return.

Before we departed for deployment at the beginning of 2015, we were granted about a month of leave, distributed accordingly across both the tail end of 2014 and the dawning of the new year.

The process of flying home was uneventful. The taxis avoided me as if I had contracted a strain of the world's deadliest, most destructive virus, and was spewing its potent contagions forth from every pore on my body.

When I arrived at the airport, it was nauseatingly near boarding time. As such, I hurriedly devoured a breakfast of trail mix and ginger ale.

After a full day of travel, I was revived by the sight of my beloved mountains. The next two weeks sped by as they always do when one is home on leave.

Propelled by love that has been stymied and repressed for too long, unable to be appreciated over Facebook and phone calls, they carry you speeding into a personal, exclusive Heaven, accessible only to those you hold dearest.

This trip, however, would culminate in anguish, strikingly tinged with hope and the inviolable promise of what the future carried. That morning my Mother was my sole company as we drove to the airport.

 Usually my Father wouldve been present, at other times my Aunt. This time though, she was embroiled in work while my Father lay splayed out in bed, combating the onslaught of food poisoning.

This made the ordeal especially excruciating, since it meant that my Mom would be arriving with me, yet returning without me. It wouldn't take a gift for adroit, deductive reasoning to surmise that her and I both were silently suffering.

No voice was granted to our stewing fears of what awaited us because we didn't want to pollute those last, precious moments with unrestrained weeping. We spoke of the weeks prior, how blessed we had been to spend so much time together.

Breakfasts at Bab's Delta Diner, lunches at Mimi's Cafe, and evening tea at Barnes and Noble. Trekking across the Suisun Marina after morning reveries fueled by steak and eggs, pancakes and coffee diluted with heavy creamer. Movies were indulged fanatically, in the living room and at the theatre, especially as the date of my flight loomed ever closer.

We idled in the sparsely occupied parking garage, delaying the inevitable before she finally killed the engine. Grabbing my luggage and hoisting to shoulder level, I noted that the suitcases felt denser, as though a nocturnal prankster had, unbeknownst to me, stuffed them with bricks of lead.

After depositing my bags with the check on personnel, we wearily ascended the efficient escalator. It ran smoothly, as if it was greased every minute, on the minute, with baby oil. As we climbed closer to the monolithic tram that would whisk me away to my plane, I wished desparately for it to have been treated with cement instead.

Noting that I still had 15 minutes before boarding, we meandered nervously. We discussed the atrocious modern art dotting the walls of some touristy exhibit imparting the history of Sacramento.

It never even registered before, but in these fleeting pockets of bonding we became devoted students pursuing doctorates, enveloping ourselves in the minutia of the irrelevant knowledge. Anything to stave off the realization that was speeding full bore towards us with the force of the Titanic at her infamous iceberg.

The alarm she set on her phone began pinging ominously, and the guillotine dropped, beheading us both. There would be no more stalling. Through some blessed miracle, we both maintained our composure, wrapping each other in a crushing hug.

For a moment, I was 5 again, desperately clinging to my Mother's leg, terrified of a world without her.

I was 10, stuck to her, bawling and indifferent to my laughing friends. I was off to Science Camp for 2 weeks. Thrilled and high off the thought of independence, yet still that sensitive little boy at heart.

I was 16, returning from a trip to Texas. Old enough to drive, capable enough in the eyes of the law to be charged with a felony.

Yet, when the truck came to a halt in the driveway, and I seen her emerge from behind the front door, I dove into her embrace as if it had been a lifetime since our last meeting.

All of these emotions surged within my splitting heart and danced before my mind's eye, and I was bucolic and blissful.

As we parted and began drifting our separate ways, I towards the aircraft and she towards the car, I swivelled my head backwards and looked at her one more time.

The world awaited, as did the sea, calling for me to sail, fight, live, and drink deeply of them both.

Yet in that instant all I desired and craved was to be free, to return home with my Mother permanently.

She told me later, after deployment had long ended and I was back again for a short reprieve, that she too had looked back at me before I headed out.

It was divine intervention that we hadn't locked eyes, for if we did, I would have never flown away.

I'm almost done, and I'm never leaving again.

Happy Mother's Day Mom.

I love you.

Popular posts from this blog

4 Reasons Why I'll Be A Vagabond In 2 Years

4 Reasons Why I'll Be A Vagabond In 2 Years As my parole date looms and I prepare to muster out of the service that's cradled me the entirety of my adult life, I face the future with an uneasy trepidation coupled with my characteristic combative nature. I've heard every excuse, tempting me with bonuses and transparent promises regarding where I could live next, to tales of woe and agonizing regret, detailing the life of a miscreant that fleed from the Navy, expecting to flourish in the free world, no longer bound by the constraints of military life. Eager and cherry, they're invariably met with a crippling reality, sprinting head first into a shallow pool of filthy water barely concealing jagged, dangerous rocks and craters. I'll take my chances as I retake the reins of my life, though, even this far out, I know that my path will hardly be traditional, and will probably offend some traditionally and civically min

Outrunning The Reaper

Outrunning The Reaper The concept of aging intimidates me.  I wont say it scares me, because I feel that I've done the very best I can at retarding, delaying, and combatting it.  My training, which in the past prioritized hypertrophy and strength, misapplied in a hilariously misinformed fashion, has altered severely.  When I first got to Hawaii in 2017, I experimented with the idea of adopting EMOM (Every Minute On the Minute) training, a methodology I'd learned from studying Crossfit.  At that point I was doing 5 sets of Freestanding Handstand Pushups a day, with each set's repetitions decreasing incrimentally, following the Recon Ron Pullup Program.  It's available for free online, and a simple Google Image search will allow one to locate the entire workout.  I would sometimes do it twice a day, and before I stopped it, I was doing around 77 Handstand Pushups a session.  Back then I fancied myself a badass for completing such a "large" amount of volume in 1

Candlelight

Candlelight I've often been asked why I haven't written a novel yet, or even a short story on its own, let alone a collection of them.  While I've written enough poetry to fill several reams of factory fresh printer paper, and my prose on this very site could be collected, condensed, and categorized into an efficient little e-book, I simply cant find the motivation to write something that lengthy.  Stephen King once said in an interview that the secret to his prolific literary output was to, simply, write.  He sits at his desk every morning, puts his hands on his keyboard, and let's his fingers dance and twirl until 2000 words are peering back at him from the soft glow of his monitor.  I certainly admire such ardent consistency, and do actually apply it in my private writing, namely my journaling. But when books to be sold for mass consumption and profit are called into question, I suffer the inevitable bout of writer's block that eventually plagues us all so stubbo