On Hiatus

“Yet It Will Come” is on hiatus while I finish my memoir Mother of Rebellion. In the next few months, this website will also be redesigned to accommodate the book. I’ll post links to my published writing, events, and other resources on Twitter.

You can find my recent work in Minerva Rising (Issue 15 Fall 2018), Bellingham Review (Issue 76), and Solstice Literary Magazine, where my essay “The Gleaming Miraculous” was a finalist and Editors’ Pick in the Summer 2018 Contest judged by Phillip Lopate. You can also read my 2018 Pushcart Prize-nominated essay “To Punctuate” at Full Grown People. Many thanks to editor Jennifer Niesslein for nominating my work — and I recommend Jennifer’s brilliant essay “Politics in Prose” in Issue 68 of Creative Nonfiction

For more about Mother of Rebellion and my most recent thoughts on writing about love and loss, check out this interview with me published on the Bellingham Review blog in September 2018.

Thank you for following my writing. More soon. I promise.

xoxo,

Magin

 

Three Words for a New Semester

Believe

I struggled my first semester teaching. Frat boys sat in the back, whispered to each other while I spoke. They didn’t have the decency to hide what they were doing by passing notes or texting. One of these boys would walk into my office with a cell-phone pressed to his ear. His high school English teacher was on the other end of the line, refuting something I’d said in class. I’ve forgotten all the boys’ names but his.

One day a female student approached while I was writing something boring on the board.

“I’ve got my period,” she whispered. “I’ve got to go.”

She backed out the door and disappeared down a hallway. I never saw her again. I thought I’d done something to drive her away. I never suspected the boys in the back, who looked strange when she left –– too giggly. Had they done something while my back was turned?

Back then, I knew so little about teaching. I let her go. I blamed myself. Now I think about her all the time. I think about each student who leaves.

I did the same as a first-generation university student, dropping a class the moment it challenged me. After I graduated, I’d said “no” to a stellar graduate program in creative writing. At 23, I rationalized my choice: I wanted to work in a genre not offered by the program.

I made a list of reasons why I shouldn’t say “yes,” starting with the suspicion that I’d never feel entirely at home in the country where I’d lived, and where I’d have to return to complete the degree. I was homesick; I missed my sister. I hadn’t mourned my mother.

These challenges were not untrue. They were also not unworkable.

The larger truth was harder to face: I didn’t believe in myself. I didn’t believe I had anything worth saying. If I could go back to the scared girl I was, I’d say: Believe.

Believe.

Believe the voice that calls you toward your dreams. This voice is inner truth, wisdom, consciousness. It’s your heart speaking. This voice will tell you to do things you think you can’t do. Do them. It’s the only way forward.

Stay

Don’t leave the minute a professor asks you to do something you don’t want to do. Like writing a thesis statement or brainstorming ideas for an assignment. Getting started is the hardest part. It’s the moment when it’s easiest to check Snapchat or text or go to the bathroom just because.

Stay in your chair, in the room, in your mind, in your body.

Whatever your professor has asked you to do is something you can do. It probably won’t take more then ten minutes. If you have a professor like me, she’ll want to help you. She’ll want to see you do what you didn’t think you could do. That’s why she’s here. Raise your hand. Ask for what you need.

Each time you leave a classroom or yourself, you miss an opportunity. You miss the chance to grow.

Stay. Stay even if you’re scared or doubting or consumed by the desire to run.

You belong here. Be present to your longing. Claim an education.

 Wonder 

Do you remember being a kid? Were you the kind of kid who wished on falling stars, believed in magic, your ability to fly? I bet you felt disappointed when you discovered those things weren’t “real.” No matter how loud you clapped during “Peter Pan,” Tinker Bell wouldn’t appear in your living room.  Maybe a sense of wonder left you. What was the point of believing in something you couldn’t see?

But what if magic is real in the way all true, unseen things are real? Love. Hope. Power.  What if you believed in your own ability to be transformed? What if you embraced the wonder of being in charge of who you become?

We can’t control everything. Other people will not see us the way we see ourselves. For example, I’ll always have to deal with men who ask, “Where’s the professor?” when they see me standing outside a classroom door.

I’ll wonder “What’s up with that?” each time, and that’s good. That’s a question I want all my students to ask.

What’s up with that?

 Don’t accept prejudice or platitudes or status quo. Suspect everything. Verify facts, evidence. Question your own beliefs. Where do they come from? Why do you hold them? Who would you be if you didn’t cling so hard?

Wonder. Wonder. Wonder.

Be curious and confused. Open to a thousand possibilities you never saw coming.

At the end of the semester you’ll be the same person who started and you’ll be different. Transformed by what you’ve learned and done. Maybe no one but you will see what’s changed. That’s true magic. Beautiful and sparkling as any falling star.

Rooms Like Blue Elephants

I’m about to tell you the most embarrassing story I’ve ever told anyone. If you read to the end, you are a true friend. Here it goes: When I was 10 or 11, my father gave me a stuffed blue elephant for Christmas. The blue was royal blue, blue as Snow White’s dress, blue as the innermost circle of a peacock’s eye, blue as the sky after a hurricane.

Up until this point, I’d never had a binky or a favorite stuffed animal. I thought kids who attached to toys were weird. But, my God, that elephant.

When I squeezed him to my chest, he felt alive. I was way too old for stuffed animals. I listened to New Kids on the Block and kept hairspray and a mirror in my school locker. By elementary school definitions, I was cool. And yet, I slept with that elephant in my bed until I went to college. Even I knew enough not to bring him to the dorms.

He was, indeed, a him. A gender determined on that long ago Christmas morning. The blue elephant became a stand-in for the father who’d left, the complicated, rarely-present, getting-sober father I could not attach to safely.

I wish I could tell you the moment those realizations dawned, I grabbed the elephant and drove to the nearest Goodwill. Nope. I gave the elephant a hug.

He is now tucked at the bottom of a giant plastic container bound for my basement. And there he will stay. Until I have a change of heart.

This summer, as we’ve engaged in a massive decluttering project, I’ve tried hard to rid myself of the blue elephant. But each time I toss him into a Goodwill pile, my chest compresses and breath catches in my throat.

To clutter means to “collect in heaps, to crowd together in disorder.” But for me to clutter is simply “to cling.”

In my clutter, I cling to a past I can never return to, the past where my mother lived, and I lived with her. I cling to a future where the object I hold might one day have a purpose, as if past, present, and future will magically align in a perfect synchronous rhythm, and all the secrets of the universe will be revealed.

But I’m trying to let go.

I’ve spent all summer decluttering our house. And I’ve reduced our clutter to one third its amount, maybe even two thirds. There are bags full of papers to shred in my guest room. There are boxes stuffed with recycling in the garage. There are weekly, sometimes twice weekly, drives to Goodwill.

“I’m coming out as a hoarder,” I told my neighbor a few weeks ago, as I dragged garbage bags bulging with donations to our front curb.

There were also piles of things out there that I had not yet bagged, so the curb looked like the perfect place for Oscar the Grouch to set up camp. Two people on a walk pointed and whispered when they passed my midden.

Another neighbor came outside and offered to leave a bag full of my clothes on his porch for a Purple Heart pickup in the morning. It was at this precise moment that I noticed the bag was white, full of my old bras, and they were all visible.

“Yes. Thank you,” I told him, too tired to be embarrassed. Too angry at everything that’s happened in the past year to feel ashamed. I don’t really have time for shame anymore. I’m decluttering a house.

The more I declutter, the more I realize objects have as much to do with my past as my future, or the fantasy of who I wish I could be if conditions –– I mean, my entire personality –– were different.

The first time I went to Goodwill this summer, I grabbed a ten-pound free weight out of a shopping cart headed for the warehouse. What if I had the sudden desire to lift the free weight one morning? Shouldn’t I exercise more? I want to be a person who exercises more. Can I be that person, please?

“I think I’m going to keep this.” I said, as I clutched the weight.

“No. No. I can’t.” I replied to myself, while a staff member looked on, and I finally let go.

“Does everyone do this?” I asked her.

“You’d be surprised how many,” she said.

So there you have it. We all have our blue elephants. We live in rooms of blue elephants. And all our rationalizations for keeping them are good –– or good enough.

My blue elephant is inanimate, thank goodness, no matter how alive he once seemed to me. We’ve all seen the scary movies where the toys come alive in the middle of the night, and I’d prefer not to be murdered in my sleep.

He’ll probably go to Goodwill tomorrow.

Or maybe not.

We’ll see.

Waiting

My mother waited more than 1,000 days for her organ transplant. She went from 39 to 40 to 41 while she waited. On her hip, she wore a black pager that would beep when her organs “were ready.” This was the expression she used, as if her organs were a steak sitting in the oven, not quite pink enough to eat. I realize that’s a gross image, but it’s what occurs to me when I remember the absurdity that was, at the time, so very normal for all of us.

Her organs were ready on June 6, 1994, the tail-end of my seventh grade year. That summer, I listened to Nirvana nonstop and wore a flannel that belonged to my best male friend. I wore the flannel as we drove to the hospital – no school for me that day! – and the chorus of “Heart-Shaped Box” rattled around inside my head. Hey! Wait!

I barely understood the song. What was the “broken hymen of your Highness?” But Hey! Wait! I got that. Those two words meant exactly what I felt as we raced toward Baltimore.

They meant a thing and its opposite could be true at the same time. Hey! Wait! And I was stuck between a thing I wanted, which was also the very thing I didn’t want.

Hey! I did want my mother to have an organ transplant because she’d die without one.

Wait! What if she died in surgery or right after?

I’d seen “Steel Magnolias.” I knew the organ rejection drill. My mother’s match wasn’t perfect. Anything could happen. I could have a mother in the morning and be motherless by nightfall. This knowledge was the one true fact of my girlhood.

Hey! Wait! Don’t feel bad for me. I don’t feel bad for me.

________

A few weeks ago, I drove past the hospital where my mother had (and survived) her organ transplant. Each time I drive past this hospital, I go back to June 6, 1994, to Nirvana, to the flannel scented with Polo cologne, to the wild ambivalence of those moments.

Ambivalence. I used that word incorrectly for years. I used to think ambivalence meant not caring enough. Do you know most people use ambivalence incorrectly?

But “ambivalence” comes from two Latin words. The first, ambi, means “both or on both sides.” The second, valentia, means “strength.”

Put those words together and you have ambivalence. It means caring too much on either side of an issue, and being unable to choose because feelings are equal on both sides. You want and don’t want the same thing.

That’s where I was on the day of my mother’s organ transplant. That’s where I am now, nearly a year after my miscarriage and seven months into antibiotic treatment for late-stage Lyme disease.

If you asked me last summer whether I wanted a baby, I’d have screamed YES. I was so ready, so certain, so sure by the time I got pregnant, incidentally the first time I tried. At 36.

What great luck I had! How dumb my doctors had been! So glad I’d used birth control pills and insisted on condoms all those years! Phew.

The gynecologist who did my first ultrasound raved about my uterus. She used the word luscious. I did everything I could in that moment not to laugh until I peed the pants I was not wearing. But I also took pride in her comment. Despite how mysteriously ill I had been, despite the sudden autoimmune thyroid disease that depleted my once boundless energy, my body could do something right.

Until it couldn’t.

________

I did three things when I realized I was miscarrying. I apologized profusely to my husband, who was asleep because it was 1:19 a.m. He did not think I had anything to apologize for and did his best to console me in his half-sleep, half-shock state.

But my body had failed in the worst way it could fail. And I was guilty, because it was my uncontrollable body that had rejected a pregnancy we both wanted. So I said I’m sorry over and over again, until I finally went downstairs and did the second thing. I made myself a cup of peppermint tea because that was all I could do to keep myself from screaming.

The third thing I did was call my mother-in-law once the sun came up. I told her my miscarriage made me realize how very much I wanted to be a mother. No more second guessing. No more doubt.

Why wouldn’t I want a child? I had an incredible mother who mothered me in lasting ways that allow me to be generous and patient and kind. My students even tell me I’d be a great mother. I know I should hear that comment as sexist, but I take it as a compliment. Because they’re right. I have all the qualities needed for masterful mothering. Anyone can see it.

And yet, there’s another side of the choice.

There’s the body that doesn’t seem to work the way it used to.

There’s seven months of antibiotics and no end in sight and arthritis in my hands.

There’s relapse.

There’s the 30 pills I take per day.

There’s my thirty-seventh birthday that passed in February.

There’s thirty-eight on the horizon.

There’s the choice to wait.

The thing about waiting is that it’s the closest thing we have to purgatory on earth. Torture, and not quite torture. When we’re waiting, we want the waiting to be over, and we focus our attention on an end. We believe the end will be better than the waiting. But after an end is reached, another waiting will come, and the next waiting after that. And on and on.

Our lives are thousands of days of waitings.

And yet, I’ve chosen to wait. I’ve chosen to be ambivalent. I’ve chosen to say the word I now understand at the core of my heart: ambivalence.

I take the word the apart.  Let it enter me. Leave me.

________

I’ve told all my doctors not to discuss pregnancy with me, and I’ve found an endocrinologist who will treat me during pregnancy with the medications I need, but that no other endocrinologist will prescribe in pregnancy. Incidentally, he is the endocrinologist who treated my mother and recommended her for an organ transplant.

The day I sat across from him at his desk, I was all grown up. A college professor. A woman with health insurance and a home of her own. He didn’t remember me as the little girl who used to wait in his lobby or run down the hallways.

He remembered my mother. Of course he did. How could anyone forget her? I saw him on June 6, 2018, a detail that was coincidence but felt like magic.

I am happy as a childless woman just as I could be happy as a mother. How fortunate I am that happiness awaits me on either side of my most difficult choice. Hey! Wait!  Two opposite things ring true. Like on the day of my mother’s organ transplant. Like right this minute.

 

A Course in Healing

1. No one wants to be here, and here we are. Exactly where we’re required to be. So welcome to an experience you never asked for. Welcome to an experience you did not choose. Welcome to “A Course in Healing.” I’m glad you’re here.

2. By the way, the word “glad” (above) is an example of the feigned positivity that will become a norm of your grief experience. Get excited. That was example No. 2.

3. There are no clear learning outcomes for this course, although learning will soon be projected onto your experience. “What have you learned?” People will ask in clipped, expectant tones.

4. “Misfortune is a great teacher,” they will say, and you will learn how to nod wordlessly.

5. It is considered bad form to respond, “I have learned that in the face of my discomfort, I am expected to comfort other people.”

6. It is equally bad form to say, “I have learned that when people ask me how I’m doing, I must say something like okay or fine because those are the only acceptable responses.

7. Do not say, “Sometimes I sit in a dark garage and weep.” Do not say, “I configure my day around ‘Growing Pains’ reruns.”

8. In short, during “A Course in Healing” you will learn how to be a good faker. Some people will even say faking is a key ingredient to your healing. We will cover this dynamic during our unit on Erasure.

9. It’s okay to wonder why the expression of vulnerability upsets the relationship non-grieving people have with permanence and/or the performance of happiness.

10. You may have figured out by now that “A Course in Healing,” should be renamed as “A Course in Lying.” I have brought this suggestion to the Curriculum Committee, and its chair reminds me that “lying” doesn’t resonate, but “healing” has cache. Healing is rainbows and holidays and sparkly love magic. Grief is blech.

11. Now you might be wondering: “Will there be any tests?”

12. Each moment of your life is a test, and there are no grades. Only choices and questions. You pass no matter what choices you make. You pass even if you choose to eat potato chips for every meal, even if you listen to that one Jeff Buckley song until the CD player skips.

13. There is no extra credit. At the end of this course, you will not be a better person. You will be a different person. You might be a person who can tangle with competing truths. You might be better at letting go of appearances, other people’s expectations, your own miscalculated dreams.

14. If I do my job well, I will impress upon you that there is no bright side where your pain fizzles out forever. There are black holes of sorrow. There is dark matter we live inside of and between. There are moments when we wish to disappear forever, if only to stop the pain.

15. There are the people we would have been without our losses, and there are the people we become because of everything we have lost.

16. There are the futures we claim.

17. There are the dreams we rewrite.

18. Take me as a case study: Before my mother died I kept a diary. My college roommate gave it to me one Hanukah. She wrote a quote from Oscar Wilde inside the front cover. “I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read on the train.”

19. And that is what I thought life was back then –– sensation for the taking. A nonstop adventure romp. The long weekend between adolescence and middle age.

20. I was twenty and twenty-one in the last years of my mother’s life, and I wrote sad poetry in that journal. And I wrote about boys I thought I loved, who maybe loved me, who didn’t love me as much as I wanted them to love me.

21. And I wasted my time with these boys. Wasted my worrying. And then my mother died, and I lost interest in boys. I ignored them, avoided them, until I fell hard for a man I never expected to meet. He lived an ocean away. But I wrote to him every day the way I’d once written to my mother. And he wrote back to me.

22. “Hi Sweetie,” his e-mails began. It was the same cheerful salutation my mother had used daily with me. In my first year without her, this man was sunshine pouring down after a night where I believed I’d never see light again.

23. He was the first proxy I made for my dead mother, and he would not be the last.

24. Even though it was not his job, he championed me the way my mother had. He made a big deal of my birthdays. He said, “I love you” without choking. He mailed me mix CDs with heart wrenching songs I’d never heard.

25. He knew where I was at night and in the morning.

26. When we were together, he held me until I fell asleep, the same way my mother had held me long ago.

27. But –– but –– a lover and a mother are not the same thing. A lover cannot be a mother. Such a burden will crush the most sincere loves.

28. One night we both cried, and I boarded a plane alone. I can still hear the sound of my suitcase scraping the pavement on the way to the airport. I thought I was leaving him temporarily. But it turned out that my leaving was permanent. I just didn’t know how to say that yet.

29. I didn’t want to leave this man, and I had to leave this man.

30. I’d never find my mother in another person. If I wasn’t careful, my search for her would destroy every chance at love that came my way.

31. I could never save her.

32. I could only save myself.

33. When I walked away from a man I loved, I walked toward a life I couldn’t imagine, a life he could not walk for me no matter how much he wanted to. I had to walk alone, toward a motherless future awaiting me.

34. My mother taught me there are no escapes.

35. My mother taught me I could withstand being sucked back into the long, lightless night.

36. Her wisdom lived beyond her, lived:

  • in the cat I rescued a few months later, a stray I didn’t want but took, lived
  • in the man I married, and a home where I made my own light, lived
  • in the stairwell of a college, where I sat one afternoon with a student who told me about a man who hurt her.

37. When the student finished her story, I told her a story about my mother.

38. I told her courage means walking toward our worst fears, walking toward the truths we don’t want to say.

39. Then we both walked toward the counseling center.

40. Each time I listen to another person’s hard story, each time I tell my own hard story, I carve another notch on the shrine I built for my mother, a shrine called memory, a shrine called love.

41. Healing is a word I avoid. I’d rather be changed, remade, reborn.

42. I’d rather hold a broken heart in my upturned palm, marvel at a heart that beats in spite of its cracks.

43. In this course, we will be who we are. We will be everything we are afraid to say. We will be the whole story of our pain.

 

How Well Do You Know Your Mother!

Mother’s full name? Judy LaSov

You’re in jail & you call her, what does she say? Do not know phone number. Do not know how to reach dead mother. Perhaps, a Ouija Board or psychic medium?  If I do reach her, jail will not be an essential element of our conversation. In fact, jail will not come up at all.

What is she doing right now? Good question. Some people say she’s watching me “from above.” But I have a different story of afterlife. It goes like this:

On the day a stranger cremated my mother, the molecules of her body ascended air. Flowers and trees inhaled her, absorbed her. She became sky, cloud, rain, earth.

Now my mother is busy being the atmosphere of everything. Like all mothers everywhere.

What kind of dressing does she eat on her salad? Has not eaten salad in 17 years. Dialysis diet restricted. Salad is a touchy subject, by the way. Because she was a Type-1 diabetic and anorexic & bulimic, which means food = super complicated. Avoided salad dressing in favor of sour but almost calorie-free balsamic vinegar.

 Name something she hates: Life with a chronic illness. Being dead. Sexism. Seersucker suits. Lace curtains.

 What does she like to drink? Coca-Cola. During an insulin reaction only. However, be forewarned: She might scream like the cup crawls with insects or poison.

 Favorite music to listen to? The Beatles, The Beach Boys, Wham!, Karen Carpenter, and especially “Close to You,” which she sang off key to her daughters  until they knew every word of that song.

 What is her nickname for you? May. For the first syllable of my name, for the month she was born, the month when roses and azaleas bloom, when flowers paint the land in Technicolor and we forget how hard winter was.

What is something she collects? Teapots, which her young daughters did not have the foresight to save when she died. So now their mother’s beloved collection sits in the homes of strangers or at the grimy bottom of a landfill. She would have wanted it this way. She would have wanted to free her daughters from the weight of a mother’s unfulfilled aspirations.

What would she eat every day if she could? Here’s the shitty thing about getting diagnosed with Type-1 diabetes in 1966: People made fun of her. Her family teased her. People said, “Mmmm. I’m eating this ice cream cone, and you can’t have any –– hahaha!” As if that were funny. As if, as a teenager, she wouldn’t learn how to binge and purge, wouldn’t learn the satisfying urgency and release of an addiction that trailed her though the rest of her life.

So, dear silly meme, the answer to this question is simple: She’d eat everything if she could.

What is her favorite color? Ripe cherry red, a color that makes her grown daughter shudder.

 What would she never wear? White shorts. They are an abomination unto the Lord.

What is her favorite sports team? Hmmm. She tried going to a baseball game once. Her daughters openly mocked the son of her boss, then disappeared for hours to do secret twin things. This was the end of attempting any family interest in sports.

What could she spend all day doing? Talking on the phone to all her cousins and friends while her introvert daughter hid in a bedroom and wondered how anyone could laugh so loud all the time.

What’s her favorite candy? Sometimes seen sneaking a box of Good & Plenty in bed while watching “The Golden Girls” and smiling like she believed she might live to be that old.

How many brothers & sisters does she have/had? Eldest brother, Bernard, died at four-and-a-half months, and proceeded her in death. Eldest sister died last September. Another brother still living.

 Favorite alcoholic drink? Admitted to getting drunk only once when she was “getting up the nerve” to have sex with a boyfriend who turned out to be the father of her children. This story, told as a cautionary tale to adolescent daughters, had zero cautionary effect.
Repost as How Well Do You Know Your Mother!

Sixty Five

Two weeks before you died, we curled up in your bed and watched “The Golden Girls.” On the TV across from us, four women huddled around a kitchen table, nibbled cheesecake and laughed fake theatrical laughs. I was too young to lose you, and old enough to sense your going. We never said death, dying, dead. If we spoke them, we’d make them true. Denial can be a life preserver. We preserved hope.

The summer before you died, we walked BWI together, and you whispered something shocking in my ear. At first, I didn’t understand. Travelers crushed around us. And I’ve never been good at walking and talking. You stopped moving. You put your arm around me. You said, “My pancreas rejected. It’s okay. I can live without a pancreas.”

I nodded, like I believed you. We walked toward baggage claim. My vision blurred. The airport looked like something under water.

I’d come home to visit the deathbed of your stepfather, the man I knew as a grandfather. I came home to play Sinatra while he took his last breaths. I came home to whisper it was okay to let go. I came home to bury him in Newark beside his first wife.

You couldn’t get out of bed the day of the funeral. We pretended you were just tired.

A month after cremating you, I marked his first yartzheit.

____

Your ashes. My God. Do you know what it is to be 21 and hear a package thump on the front stoop, make the sound of a body hitting cement? Do you know what it is to see the address stamped on the box and know your mother is inside that box?

Only, your mother is not merely your mother. She is your first god, first home, your mirror, your map, the blueprint of everything.

And then, one day, your mother is in a black box inside a cardboard box with a crematorium address stamped on the lid. Your mother is dust and splintered bones and sooty grit, a shadow you can never touch.

You remember denial is a life preserver.

Then you carry the box to a bedroom that still smells like your mother. You ignore a hairbrush holding remnants of hair that never went grey. You open a dresser drawer and tuck the box beneath a stack of sweaters. There, a burial.

____

Seventeen years later, you write before work, at night. Pronouns get confused. You are you. She is you. We are she, her, and me. You do all the mixed-up pronoun things you tell your students not to do. You tangle, untangle, tangle again. You make up for lost time. Grief makes a stern knot you don’t want to untie.

____

You read shitty self help books that say there’s a finish line for grief, say grieving too long is pathological, say sorrow and love are not proportional. You stop reading these books because they make you suspicious. You are not a pathology. You are devoted.

At a lecture, a famous writer talks about desire. Desire is the engine of literature, he says. What we want never adds up to what we have. All books, he says, are actually about crushes.

Okay.

So you have a crush on your dead mother. There are worse things. But what would it mean to stop desiring her? Would that make it okay that she is dead?

Who would you be if you didn’t want her alive?

____

You move through your twenties and thirties without her. You are effective, efficient at steering through life without a mother. You have a solid husband, a good mother-in-law, Google. You can find an answer to any question.

And yet, you delay childbearing because you are afraid to mother without her. Your friends have mothers who watch their grandchildren a few times a week. Still, your friends complain about their mothers to you, and you nod. Because what can you say?

You wonder who you will call in a childcare pinch.

Your sister hires a full-time nanny, manages to juggle a high demand job with graduate school, with two children under the age of five and one on the way.

A nephew has your mother’s eyes and all her facial expressions. A niece has her “whatever” attitude.

One day, your nephew asks to see pictures of your mother. He asks for these photos the same way he asks for Harry Potter Legos — he must have them. But there’s not enough time to show him everything, and you pull out a few photos you know he’s already seen.

You recognize the hunger in his eyes, the downturn of his shoulders when you cannot fulfill his desire to know her.

Still, a ghost grandmother is better than no grandmother at all.

____

You wish you had something wise or prophetic to say on the second week of May when her birthday and Mother’s Day intersect. For so many years, you say nothing, as if silence can erase her absence.

You graduate college on your second Mother’s Day without her.

You mark major milestones on her birthday, May 10: first day of your first job after college, the day you meet your husband, the day you decide to date him, the day he and you buy your first house together.

You mark all the birthdays she didn’t get: 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65.

And all the birthdays she didn’t see you mark: 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37.

And all the events in her grandchildren’s lives that she didn’t see: brit milah, Hebrew namings, Kindergarten graduation, first steps, first words, first Siddur.

As if by marking, you can somehow take something back. Not her life. But the right to tell the story of your desire. Her desire.

Desire, from the Latin, desiderare, means “long for” and “wish for” and derives from the sadly out of vogue expression “await what the stars will bring.”

She used to sing a song of desire to you, a Karen Carpenter song about dreams coming true, stardust, angels.

When you mark her birthday, you remember this song. You remember the gift each line intones, the burden.

She no longer trails your dreams. But nothing stays gone forever.

She finds her way back to you again and again, always in a different form than what you expected.

You watch, wait, listen.

On her birthday, she used to blow out candles, then tell you to make a silent wish.

You can’t say your wish out loud, she said, because then it won’t come true.

Once you gave her a journal and asked her to write down all her desires. She left every page blank.

You fill in the pages for her. You become every wish ever wanted, every wish she never saw come true.