My mother gave me her China. It is so beautiful. Every single dinner of joyful consequence was served on this China. I look at it. Up close, from a near distance, overhead, lower to take in the gold rims. Let my focus soften, let associations dissipate, loosen context, get dreamy, time travel quietly to 1949 when my mother was young, beautiful and optimistic.
I used to sometimes make things better. And sometimes make things worse. I was unreliable. I, too, was young, beautiful and optimistic. I was young. So to make things worse seemed okay. There was so much future to look forward to! Now, I try to always make things better. To mitigate. To be a source of light and comfort and joy. Key word: try.
Today, super snowycoldicy January Saturday, I was there, at my mom’s, packing up precious things, co-napping, poking through stuff slowly, being the youngest, inefficient but sweet and tender. It was a tender time. Reading the newspaper aloud and loud, from close range.
She went off to a different room with Gloria, there to give care, and I overheard my mother’s voice, “Lisa is a fixer.” I had fixed the wobbly kitchen table. Later on I said, I may come over tomorrow, “Please,” said my mother. “Come over tomorrow and give me moral support.” I know the need. I feel the tenderest of tender at this request. Lisa is a fixer. That’s a very sweet spot.
The Lunch Encounter 