Pine needles and dry heat

 What I remember most is the smell of her hope chest early in the morning and her enthusiasm for lightning storms. Pine needles and dry heat, a fiery combination.

She was a storm chaser, even in some of her weaker moments. She would take my sister and I, one of us in each hand and lead us directly into the storm. People use to think that she was our baby sitter with her blond hair and fair skin in contrast to our darker features and thick curly hair.

With the anticipation of a child on Christmas morning,she would count the seconds between lightning and thunder. Should it be far enough apart, we would go to the nearest park or field, walk to the middle and lay down on our backs. She would tell stories about the storm, my favorite being that the angels were bowling. I could picture this clearly, for I had seen bowling on cable TV at the houses she cleaned. The angels were always a warm alabaster with harp like laughter. And the loud rumbling shaking Los Angeles was their marble bowling  balls spinning down the the lane of clouds heading for the perfect strike that would then light up the sky.  To this day I have never been bowling, though it is on the list I started at 18 years old, keeping track of all of the normal things I had never experienced but need to. I keep it tattooed on the back side of my heart, just below my embroidered list of secrets.

She is tangled up in my secrets and my dreams. Every few years, for just a moment, on some random street corner, I think I spot her going into a coffee shop, coming out of a bank, pumping gas. I use to think that something happened, big and bad causing her to go into the witness protection program or forced to become an agent for the CIA. I would lay in my bed for hours, figuring out just how it happened and just how she would save me. They call this maladaptive day dreaming, but I swear it was wishful thinking. I needed her. Maybe I still need her.

It's rare now, that I see someone who knew my mother but when I do that person never fails to mention that I have her mannerisms. Mannerisms that I try to find myself- secretly- late at night when I have had far to much to drink. I can't help it, I am always looking for her. I grip the bathroom counters edge and look directly into the mirror (something I almost never do). Is it in the way I hold my hands? The way I shape clay? Make coffee? My smile? My eyes? Someone told me once that I have a woman's eyes, but are they her eyes? What pieces of me were gifts from her? What pieces can I cling to and pretend to feel safe, safe in that childlike way of knowing that if I had a nightmare that she would stay awake all night warding off monsters, protecting me in my sleep. I would give anything to feel safe while sleeping, it will be twenty years this summer since I have truly slept.
I can no longer tell you much about her, not much more than a handful of half memories. She always had a diet coke in her hand, a Marlboro red and one of her closest friends died of AIDS in the early 1980s. To this day, I smoke more then she did, think harm reduction is sexy and I have soft spot for women who drink diet coke. But I know the moment she died- I lost something more than a mother. I lost Sunday morning stories of owls and high school , falling for the spell of the hope chest- rummaging through the linens and possibilities,  growing up along side my hero, lost a feeling of safety, and ultimately I lost the person who was supposed to teach me how to live.

Watching someone die is different then watching them live, especially when it comes to my mother. Even when she fumbled, she was graceful, even when she was broke, she wasn't poor, even when she couldn't protect me- she could meet me in my dreams. Some times when people die they become superheros or saints. She was my superhero even before I knew or understood that she was dying, before I understood that we are all dying and living simultaneously or that to live is a matter of personal choice. She chose to live, even when shoved up against her last breath. It's about time I begin to do the same.