Dear Ma,
I kept waking up all night, thinking you were back. I'd try to push my back against you. I only found pillows.
It would wake me up. I'd blink and try to remember where I was and what was different.
My mind is getting so accustomed to the concept of your return, that she thinks you're already here.
For five weeks, she's resigned herself to sleeping and living alone again. Back to the habits of scrunching pillows around to keep cold drafts from seeping under the covers. Back to planning only for me.
My mind bridges both realities with awkward ambivilence. You're supposed to be here; I'm supposed to be alone.
I feel relieved at the idea of not having to spend another Evil Christmas alone with the forced hillarity of mass media merchandising.
I'd like to bake a batch of gingersnaps with you. I bought some egg nog.
Other than that, and playing my flute to any music specials on PBS, I have no plans for holy days.
We have a tree, thanks to the generosity of the neighbors and my ability to squirrel away decorations others discarded.
Your presents, and there are nearly sixty of them, are not for Christmas. They're for your birthday. They're welcome home gifts. They're my attention to the details of your life that needed filling in. They're celebrations of your beauty. They're tributes to your new beginnings.
Your mother died so young, so soon in your life. You never had a woman to fuss over you, to attend to your grooming, to show you how to decorate your space.
This is your first bedroom as a woman. You've lived in cramped quarters that had to serve as living-bed-kitchen-bath-garage-office spaces. Or you've shared bedrooms with lovers.
I want you to come home to a space that's easy to operate, cheerful, feminine, happy and a little elegant. I want you to come home to a space that speaks of you and your needs. I want you to have a place to play, explore, examine and investigate yourself.
So, I've tidied up, accented, added, arranged. You can easily change any thing I've done that doesn't suit your needs. Or I can.
It could take you days to discover everything I've tucked away for you.
Thirty six hours from now, I'll be hopping from foot to foot at the airport, waiting for the announcement that your plane has landed.
I'll be carrying mistletoe.
Food's cooked. Everything's clean. The beds have fresh linens. There's plenty of toilet paper.
We have toys and projects available.
I have no plans. I just created space in which we can decide what each of us needs and wants.
I see some bike rides, trips to stores, walks by the river, dollar movies.
But I'm waiting to see how you're feeling adn where your energies lie.
I have no expectations.
I just want to feel your warm belly and cold toes, next to me in the bed, as we kick off the dog and tell each other the adventures between our ears.
I even got us some chocolate!
