I’m finally becoming comfortable with the death of my mom. I’m starting to be able to talk about her, think about her, and learn more about her without shrinking and falling apart. That doesn’t mean I’m not sad, I think I always will be, but I am starting to be okay again.

    

I recently had a dream about her. We were standing in my kitchen at home making paninis. She was in black sweats and a tank top and she looked just like she did before, as if she never got sick. She looked great. The weird thing about it was that it could’ve been any other day, that’s how normal it seemed. It was probably my mind flooding with old memories and my subconscious craving food, or it could have been my mind finding a way to somehow create a new memory. I like to think it’s the latter, my brain finding a way to integrate her into my current life. I don’t quite remember everything we said or did, but I do remember her turning to me and saying matter-of-factly, “paninis go great with cassette tapes”. Then, I woke up laughing.

    

Now my mom was hip. She had the best taste in music and loved to dance. She wore flared corduroys and rocked an asymmetrical haircut back in the day. She was the cool mom…but paninis and cassettes? Maybe she’s just ahead of the times.

 

Since her passing, I’ve found solace in the little things. Her countless Smiths records taught me about the world of 80’s new wave and punk music; her enthusiasm for Target showed me that running errands can be fun; her tattered Eraserhead shirt taught me about cult cinema; and her insane flourless chocolate cake recipe was perfect when I needed to satisfy my sweet tooth. 

 

I can’t help thinking that she would have been my best friend.

 

A lot of my friends started liking their parents again in high school. The teen angst had finally begun to fade and the thoughts of college and adulthood were within reach. And so, parents started to gain respect again. I had friends that could talk to their moms about boy troubles like they did with their closest friends; and friends that had dads they could smoke weed with without consequence. However, don’t mistake this for bad parenting. This was friendship (and Los Angeles). I was seventeen when I lost my mom to brain cancer and thirteen when she had her first seizure. While kids my age were getting closer to their parents, I was losing mine.

 

 I remember my mom as my mom, but now I want to learn who my mom was as a person. I want to know what she was like when she was my age. I want to know what she liked to wear, what books she liked to read, and what boys she liked to date. I want to hear the wild stories, even if they make me want to fall apart again. I was angry and numb for a long time, but I’m ready to be okay again.