Running home to MommaI'm sitting on Mom's back porch right now. It's quiet, except for the buzz of insects and the sounds of the gentle breeze blowing through the trees outside. She'll be out doing her Saturday service with her church friends for the next hour or so, then we'll head out to have that lunch and drinks together out on the river.
It's almost time for me to finish my cup of coffee and start getting ready. We won't be leaving right away - today is a day for no set schedule.
Last night, I arrived a little after 9. My aunt was here and had brought some home-made stew to share with us. Feeling rather hollow inside, I had a bowl as we all chatted and got caught up. I gave mom the present I had picked up when
@Steph2.0 and I flew to Kentucky back in October.
"Oh you didn't have to get me anything," she said with a smile as I handed her the gift bag. I just shrugged and said, "I just wanted to get you a little something from up there.
Much like her daughter, mom enjoys her morning coffee:
The conversation wandered hither and yon but one highlight was the genealogy work my mom and aunt's youngest sister had done a dozen or so years ago. I remembered some of this from conversations we had had back then but wasn't aware/didn't care about of some of the details. The change in attitude toward family matters makes me wonder if it's due primarily to my becoming this new person or if age and the accompanying maturity are a larger factor. It's probably a combination but in what proportion I can't say.
Looking at my surroundings, I see small details which at some point may have cause anxiety or flare-ups of dysphoria even. The metal roof of the porch, dented from where a tree hit it during Hurricane Charlie back in 2005. The patio chair in which I sit, with the vinyl straps color-coordinated with the pool tile from the house we lived in back in the mid-80's - one of which still has marks on the corner where one of mom's cockatoos had chewed on it. There's a hole in the ceiling down by one end that used to have a hook from which swung the birds' perch - a piece of driftwood that dad had found on the beach one day.
The fountain in the corner which used to have a central piece from which water flowed down across three tiers made to look like leaves. All of those parts were broken, one by one, much in the same way as the connections I once had with this place, this home and this family. Still, the column on which it stands is intact as is the basin full of water. In spite of all of the damage over the decades, water still bubbles forth from the center. It's only a trickle but sometimes that's enough.
There is a palm tree just outside the porch which stands well above the roof line of the house. I can remember being out there when that tree was right around my height. We used to bring the birds out there and set the garden hose to arc a light spray of water over the tree. They would squawk and flap their wings in delight as they played in the mist. That probably reminded them of their former rainforest homes from which they originally came many years ago. Both were wild-caught when they were young - a cruel practice by today's standards but was the only way folks like us could adopt these creatures into our families.
Well, it's time to dry up and start getting ready to go out. Now begins the process of choosing an outfit from what I brought with me. Several times in the past, I had mentioned to Stephanie that "I love being a woman" but in the case of choosing between outfits, that phrase is said with a note of wry humor.
