Motherless Day
I will not be the recipient of sorry eyes...
I touch his paper-thin skin; he is trying to help. He is aiming to speak her native language, and collectively we are figuring out what it could be. His braids are silver and his skin a deep dark brown. We are on an aid mission; he thinks the girl might be Pakistani. He says, “I know I can speak to her; I just need to get closer.” I place my hand on his arm full of wrinkles; his skin is soft and cold.
And then I wake up, confused by the abrupt exit from this lucid and vivid world. But only in a dream would Willie Nelson and I be so close, almost paternal.
It wasn’t a dream 20 years ago when I sat on his tour bus, quiet and observant. I knew he was famous; I knew this was a big deal. I had spent my childhood singing his songs with my mother on the way to school. I remember seeing her tear up singing the lyrics to “Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain.” She and I share the same unique yellow-green eyes, and I remember thinking, “This song wasn’t written for you; why are you crying?” Being young and naive to the idea that your eyes don’t have to be blue to connect to the essence of a feeling of sorrow.
There was so much I didn’t know about her inner workings. Was she mourning her lack of romantic love at that moment? Was she wishing she and Willie had intertwined in their own tryst? Sure, they shared a different kind of bond, one I think to be even more valuable than any sort of sexual encounter.
Willie and I have only had a couple encounters in the waking world. As a baby, as a 15-year-old, on the phone the day after my mother died, and a brief email from him explaining how important she was to him.
“dear jessie
your mother and i were great friends. i met her first when she wrote a story about all us outlaws in texas me waylon kriss she was a fan a friend and really responsible for helping me make the ‘’red headed stranger’‘ movie.she introduced me to the lady who put up the money..that lady carilyn mugar now runs farmaid so you see we were really close..she was a great lady you should be proud. love willie nelson”
I don’t remember my dreams. This one feels so real that I immediately reach for my phone to check if this was some kind of psychic telecommunication. Did he die? I worry about that day often. One where I read the headline of his passing. He’s in his 90s; it’s bound to happen soon enough. I have this dream of speaking with him about her. Would his memories even hold many details this far past? Old files collecting dust in the expansive office building of his mind, hot-boxed with marijuana smoke.
She loved him. It’s all over her journals. Even if they were only friends who played chess and went running and championed each other’s projects. I know that kind of love. It ignites briefly in their presence. A candle that burns from wick to wick, and when it goes out, there are no phone calls or check-ins. You simply wait until the next time both of your stars pass through the same galaxy, lighting up a darkness for a moment in time.
In the kitchen making my tea, I’m still thinking about how it felt to touch his skin. To feel at home with him in a foreign place. To trust him and his intentions. I find the biggest mug I have, I place the collagen powder, then the matcha powder, a little maple syrup, a dash of hot water. The electric whisk whirs, creating its traction, pulverizing the dry tumbleweeds of tea that can find their way to the end of the cup. I’m lost in thought, wondering how many of these characters that were pivotal in my mother’s life will I actually get the chance to speak with about her. As each one dies, one more piece of her legacy is lost; it’s one more person who won’t speak her name anymore.
This weekend is Mother’s Day, 21 years later, and I will still find myself tearing up on the lawn of an intimate outdoor concert. I will be seated on a blanket next to my friend’s mom, examining her face and her hair and, more importantly, the way her smile beams when she watches her daughter perform in front of 100 people. Winona will sing her a song that she wrote specifically for her, and they will gaze at each other with an inner knowing of all they have shared in the years they have spent cultivating their relationship. Normally this doesn’t get me. But that night, I will imagine what it might feel like to share a blanket on the grass with my own mother. I could see her smiling with a glass of wine, feeling included with the girls, with her daughters’ friends. So many years spent pounding our flags into our respective territories, but now, now we would be friends, united for the same cause. My musician friends aren’t Miles Davis or Kris Kristofferson, but they are glowing and talented and kind, and I know she’d love to see me following ever so slightly in her footsteps.
I will tear up, shoving the knot in my throat down, cutting it off at its first indication. I will not sob here; I will not be that woman missing her mother. I will not be the recipient of sorry eyes.
I used to dream about her, but now it’s been so many years. I wonder if writing this book will connect us again. Will it open the portal enough for her to slide through the crack in the door to come visit me like she used to?
“How long are you here for?” I’d ask.
“Only a few moments,” she’d smile. “Let’s make it count.”
I’d wake up sobbing. There’s nothing like accepting someone is gone forever only to feel the shock of so clearly having them with you again. Perhaps it hurt too much? Maybe it was me who locked the door all those years ago, only leaving a window for her to peer through.
Many people have asked me lately how the book is coming. “Slowly,” I reply with a guilty, teethy smile. “It’s a lot more therapeutic than I was expecting.” Therapeutic in the sense that good feelings and hard feelings intersect at once. New sorrow emerges I didn’t know existed. New questions too. And a helluva lot of blank spaces, memories I just can’t access, and the confusion that accompanies those epiphanies.
The book is going as fast as I can while maintaining everyday life. I didn’t get an advance that pays for the cost of living while writing, and in true Jessie form, I have two full-blown businesses I’m supporting and one part-time job. A loving relationship (that arguably supports me more than I support it - shout out to Luciano for making sure I eat real meals). A home on 5 acres that needs constant tending to. A gorgeous friend group worthy of chunking out time for.
When I lost Mom, something in me shifted. Living for a distant future no longer seemed important. Taking time mid-week to walk in nature or grab a tea with a friend feels more important than working tirelessly for hours on end, staring at a computer screen. So I break up my days, working in the morning for a handful of hours, taking time in the afternoon to be in the daylight, maybe fitting a little more work in after, then dinner and cuddles on the couch.
Thank you for being here, for taking an interest in my journey and my mother’s life that she worked so hard to build.