Six years ago a man was hunting—not for fish or flying creatures—but for a rare but beautiful type of fungus—the elusive morel mushroom. Six years ago down on his hands and knees, pushing back and across a thousand Freddies, that man would bump into something indeed rare and beautiful, but IT would be a SHE and she was not what HE was looking for; not at all. But I was, looking that is.
Six years ago we lay the questions to rest. The hope, it died last. The next chapter of the book was well underway and six years ago feels like a thousand, maybe more.
“Well at least you have closure” is what people say most often in response to this tale. As if closure ever made it all better, tying life and love and heartache into some nifty mess-less beginning and end all wrapped up package. I remember begging my first boyfriend too, “just get together with me one last time, so I can get closure.” Yeah that’s what I wanted, closure. Right. You know what I wanted—then and now? A hug.
My mom was 5 foot nothin’ with an embrace more fierce than a black bear feeding her cub. Her hair was long and full. Most days I can still see her, wrapped up in curlers—hot, foam, rags or velcro. With a tiny mirror and a huge makeup bag, sitting at the counter, L’Oreal number 620—mica, back and forth across her lips, pucker.
Today my hair is wrapped up in curlers, and today, like every other day, I miss her.