The Ring

It was a coincidental cluster, but a cluster all the same, the rash of departures of mothers. Chronologically elderly mothers, the generation of mothers that bore my generation, mothers who, to their own daughters and sons, always seemed larger than life and immortal. 

With each departure I was struck with grief and a pang of fear. Grief for my friends' losses and my own, particularly for those moms with whom I had spent so much time over the years. And fear that my own mother's immortality would prove, one day, to be nothing more than a sham. I know that's unlikely, but one should always be prepared for such things. 

As my friend and her sister have spent considerable time bonding, these past few months, going through their mother's things, I have sat on the sidelines, still not believing I would never again have lunch with Ann, or celebrate a holiday with her, or grieve together, or even serve as nothing more than a buffer between her and her daughter. We do that for each other, we daughters, able to spin what might appear to be a mother's unrelenting critique into nothing more than inartful expressions of unconditional love. It's cheaper than therapy. 

The clean-up helped my friend and her sister grieve, and it helped me know more about the woman I really only knew as their mom. I would never have expected the fastidious Ann to have expired food in her fridge and pantry. I would never have expected the methodical Ann to have dozens of half empty tissue packets buried in every jacket pocket. I would never have expected the sensible Ann to have too many pairs of the same kind of pants, or to waste her time with fake flowers. The tissues were unceremoniously bequeathed to me, by her daughters, since I never seem to have any. The fake flowers adorn what used to be a large empty vase by my front door. 

I loved Ann's whimsical teapot collection, though I hate tea. I know I am getting one, and I hope it's the polka-dotted rooster, but beggars (and merely honorary daughters) cannot be choosers. 

What I never expected though, never would have asked for, was the ring. I had forgotten about this ring, the wide one with intertwined ribbons of metal, the one she always wore and I always admired. After everything was packed away, her daughters surprised me with it. I felt unworthy, as if maybe we should have gotten Ann's permission. Deep down, though, I knew she would have been okay with it, and it made me smile. 

After so many years of being daughters and mothers together, my friends and I have managed to blur the boundaries between family and friendship, and we have woven together an intergenerational tapestry that keeps us from becoming unglued, not just from each other but from ourselves. 

A wide band of intertwined ribbons, without beginning and without end. 

A Fish Out of Water, Swimming Upstream

I was not so much swimming as hobbling upstream, moving gingerly in my wildly uncomfortable boots through the onrushing tide of Bears fans heading south for the opening game at Soldier Field. I yearned for the flip flops in my purse, but I was off to a soirée of sorts, a gathering of successful women, two of whom I had met only once, three of him I had never met at all. Not the kind of event that lends itself to comfortable shoes. 

Or maybe not. I felt intimidated, considered turning around and joining the football fans. They are devoted networkers, these women, and I happened to get caught up in their mystical web. Most of them had arrived before I did, in this eclectic condo in Printers Row lovingly packed with the most astonishing potpourri of perfect touches. They were outgoing and friendly, animated when speaking and intent when listening. This would be all right. 

They spoke in some sort of networking code, and I tried (in vain) to follow the evolution of all the various groups and sub-groups.  I know precious little about networking; my experience (other than the one meeting that brought me to this place) consists solely of trolling dating sites on a particularly boring Saturday evening, searching for somebody who might make me laugh. Nevertheless, I felt, almost immediately, entirely at home, at ease. I was barely even mortified when I dripped the juice of a  stuffed mushroom on my blouse. After about ten minutes, I felt like family.The company? The hors d'oeuvres? The smorgasbord of art pieces everywhere? Whatever it was, my feet were grateful. I went to my purse and retrieved my flip-flops. 

They are successful professionals in ways I was not raised to be; not lawyers or doctors or Indian chiefs but filmmakers and communications analysts and leadership consultants and holistic financial planners. A gifted musician who had traded in her violin, at least temporarily, for a more orderly profession. We are polar opposites really; I seek out disorder in hopes of achieving some gift, even a modicum of creativity. But we are both Scorpios. We sat together at dinner, gave a separate -- dare I say cliquey? -- toast to our Zodiac bond.  

They are armed with tales of discovery and adventure, so much more interesting that my old standby, the one about childbirth, in all its excruciating detail. There was a tale of a youthful encounter with a handsome stranger at the top of the Eiffel Tower. There was a tale of a serendipitous stop in a small and unassuming French Village left nearly emptied and silent by a brief and atrocious Nazi pass through. Trips to India and China and Milan. Oddly, I could not remember going anywhere, discovering any mysteries; I certainly could not conjure up any chance encounters with a handsome stranger. 

The writer among us piped up, eventually, somewhat embarrassed about the nature and extent of her travels.  She wished she had the travel bug, but she just did not. It's not that she hadn't thought about it; it's just that she prefers to travel by reading. It is her life blood, her books. She ventures across the globe and back through time. She realized, I think, as she spoke, that she is probably more well-traveled than any of us. 

By my count, only two of the six of us had chosen to have children. By my count, though everybody's life seemed full, not one of us could claim a great career and children and an intact marriage. Two of the three was the best any of us could do. 

I left both exhilarated and confused, uncertain of who I am supposed to be and what I am supposed to be doing.  I took comfort, when I returned home, settling into easy repartee in a group text with my old friends, all of them intelligent and accomplished in their own right but having chosen a somewhat different path from the women at the soiree. I admire all of them really, my steadfast and indispensable circle of old friends and my new acquaintances, certain that each one is far more sure of herself, whatever her choices have been, than I am. I take a few minutes to prepare for whatever I will work on tomorrow, and I remember that I am good at what I do. I remember that my resume is three pages long, which makes me either accomplished or flighty, maybe a little of both. 

This morning I walked up the same sidewalk I had hobbled down last night, now empty except for the occasional dog walker. Everybody is wearing comfortable shoes, and everybody seems lost in their own thoughts. Interesting if only for its ordinariness. I head east, toward Soldier Field, as the steady hum of rush-hour traffic builds. I wonder if I should maybe take an interest in football since I live so close. But then I think of the possibilities -- a chance encounter with a stranger, a serendipitous stop in a village with a heart-wrenching story to tell, a book that takes me somewhere far away, or back in time.

A fish out of water, sometimes. Swimming upstream, when I have to. But more and more, unapologetic about my comfortable shoes.