Biggest Love from the Smallest Body

I just closed the door when mama bolted out of the house and damn near slammed me against my car with the impact of her hug.  This 5’4” woman, 100 lbs soaking wet, damn near bowled me over.  She wrapped her arms around my neck and tried to hoist herself up and wrap her legs around my waist to complete a mama bear hug but she recently had knee surgery so that was impossible.  Just clung to my neck.  I had to lift her up lest she choke me.  Lifted her up and carried her into the house.  Damn.  I didn’t get welcomed like that when I came home from the war!  And I told her so.  We were at peace with each other then, she said, we were talking.  If anything happened I knew we were at peace with each other.  Later, out of nowhere, she said that if I’m not in her life she wants it to be because I am dead.  She could not bear it if I was alive and out of her life.  

    Look, she said - and she might as well have said BEHOLD! - when she ushered me into the kitchen where every inch of counter space was taken up with bowls and plates and cutting boards.  I’m making everything from scratch.  Nothing is being reheated.  Drink your coffee, she said, while I make the waffle batter.  I know you prefer waffles to pancakes.  I bought a waffle iron yesterday . . . see - BEHOLD! - and I went to the farmer’s market to get fresh potatoes for your hashbrowns and fresh fruit for your fruit salad, I know you love citrus so there’s plenty of oranges and mandarins and tangerines . . . oh . . . let me know when you’re ready for breakfast.  I’m going to scramble your eggs fresh and I know you like cinnamon toast and grits and . . . oh . . . I’m so sorry, honey, but I don’t know how to make spaghetti sauce and pasta from scratch and I didn’t want to mess up my first time so lunch will be sauce from a jar and spaghetti from a box but -

    Mama, it’s okay

So she cooked and I ate and she grabbed my hand every time I made to get off the couch.  You’re not leaving yet?  No, mama.  I’m going to the bathroom.  You’re not leaving yet?  No, mama, I’m getting a drink.  Humma humma.  When I did get up to leave she took hold of my arm and walked with me to my car.  I think she’s a little bit crazy.  Mama, I said, your knee.  Stop limping around.  Relax.  Honey, she said, make sure you call when you get home.  I assured her I would call.  Don’t forget.  I assured her I would not forget.  Oh . . . maybe you should have a snack before you leave.  If you’re hungry on the road you might get distracted . . . 

Mama, it’s okay.

Here, she said, take a bottle of water in case you get thirsty.  If you’re thirsty on the road you might -

Mama, it’s okay.

. . . wait! . . . I got you some long underwear in case it gets cold.

I hate it when she buys me underwear of any kind.

And regular underwear.  I got briefs and boxer briefs . . . I don’t know which you prefer because I know you don’t like talking about your underwear with me.

Mama . . .

Remember to call.

I will call.

Don’t work too hard, honey.

I won’t.

I’ll stay up until you call.

Mama . . .

You have everything?  

I have everything.

You have everything to stay warm in case it gets cold.  You always say that you sweat your balls off one minute and freeze them off the next . . . I wish you wouldn’t talk like that . . . no, no . . . . it’s okay.  Remember to call.

Yeah, she’s a little bit crazy.  When I was backing out of the driveway she followed alongside until I stopped, put the window down, Mama, go inside.

A little bit crazy.