That asshole Old Man Winter finally relented and I was able to go do some more cleaning on Mom's apartment. I started the trip out feeling pretty good, this has been in the back of my mind since she's been gone, and it'll feel great to get more done. As I started getting further down the interstate, that nervous feeling hit me in my stomach. Going a couple hours down I-81 doesn't seem like such a trek anymore and I always ask myself "Would it have been so hard to visit more?"
But then I think of when I was living on campus in college and I visited many weekends and during every break and we were fighting the whole time over nothing. My eyes would water and I'd sneeze, wheeze and cough, and she'd keep on smoking right in my face. I'd take a shower to try to smell clean, but I'd have to dry off with towels that smelled like ashtrays. She'd make me food to take home and I'd open the container and the smoke had permeated everything. Superficial? Yes. I could have dealt with it. It's an addiction like any other. Not to mention that I stupidly started smoking in 2007 and continued the habit for 2 years. But for some reason, her smokey homes always made my allergy symptoms unbearable.
I guess it was hard to visit more. I remember my bags getting packed for me on the 2nd or 3rd day of a long visit. The comments about my weight, the comments about my drinking. "Your teeth are getting so crooked!" "Are you a lesbian?" Constant criticism. Then, when I'd show my agitation, she'd tell me I was beautiful and chuckle. I could tell her to do one thing that would make me very happy and she'd find the exact opposite and laugh and do that.
The last couple teenage years before moving out consisted of her yelling how much she couldn't wait until I moved out. I'd get up some mornings and she'd be furious at me and not speak to me. I never knew why. Push, push, push. She pushed me away until I never felt welcome anywhere she lived ever again.
There's always the time I came home for Christmas and saw a strange truck in the driveway. "This is Paul." Paul was an incoherent redneck she met "through a friend". They'd been dating for months but I had no clue who he was and now they were living together. And we would be expected to spend Christmas together like a family. My bedroom was overflowing with furniture and clothes and craft supplies. I always had to sleep and hang out in the living room. I wanted to leave but she made a huge ordeal about me having to stay.
Paul was a smoker too. Fuck my allergies.
Then when it was time to load the car and go back to Radford, the apologies came. So I'd finish the drive home in tears.
Last summer, when Will got back from Afghanistan, I needed a ride to the Raleigh-Durham airport AND a babysitter for Powder. I had a couple options, but Mom volunteered. I was in complete shock when she really drove the 2 hours by herself to Radford and then 3 more hours to the airport with me, then however long it takes to get from the airport to Lebanon. She kept saying how scared she was and how she couldn't do it. She made it home safe and sound. She was so proud! She reminisced about how much she used to go, go, go. I got on the plane and let myself silently cry. I missed my mom so much. Whenever she did something extraordinarily nice for me with no strings attached, I didn't know what to do but cry.
At any rate, we got another good bit of things cleared out. It's so strange going through a dead person's things. They have no say over what you take. You could pack everything into trash bags and throw them out. Throw out their whole life. They're dead. They know nothing of what you do with their things. Guilt is for the living. So you pick up an object, determine its value. Sentimental or monetary. Nothing? Donate it. Trash it. But that's a brand new lotion from Bath and Body Works. . Oh. I think that's what I got her that one time. It's never been opened.
I guess I'll take it back then.
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