“Yor en Ah-may-ree-caaan”, she exhaled and, instantly, I was an alien, an other who, despite our blood relation and her capacity to apprehend the incredible (e.g., divine interventions, God, The Virgin Mary, and Jee-sass), she would never grasp.
I was driving her son’s bee-em-dah-bel-yoo on I-280 and, on that day, her anxiety was stifling. Despite her brother’s endorsement, “Ya, hee ken der-ayvv”, she clung to her leather armrest and firmly rooted herself to the front passenger floorboard. Inconsolable and absurd, she couldn’t help but imagine the wreck of European automotive ingenuity that would surely have been perpetrated by me. She was witless and also my ///////.
Hunched, my arms dangled from my shoulders, my outward-facing palms rested on my thighs (she was an elder after all) I hissed, “I’m recording!” A galumpher, she smiled indifferently and casually walked past me. In that old house was a narrow track of beige carpeting edged by the kitchen, foyer, stereo system, and love seat. There was a lot of foot traffic, but none like my ///////’s. She was oblivious to the sound of the needle skipping, incognizant of the care and attention I gave the process of recording vinyl to cassette. Like the rest of her clan, she believed that what I was engaged in – what I thought, what I saw, what I felt – was inconsequential. She saw no reason to tread lightly. She would never change.
Except for a pair of inelegant hands (her fingers resembled tree trunks and her knuckles looked like knots), she was firm and well proportioned – I could imagine how enticing she must have been as a young lady. Now, all I remember is her pinguid koo-king and a white frilled dress she once wore. There’s a photograph of her in that dress. She was standing in front of a dark wooden rail and the flash from the camera gave the false impression of brilliance. In that dress, she was unadulterated, immaculate, and understanding. My /////// was Perfect! In that dress, she was the person she longed to be; she was the person she wished everyone would see.
I pressed STOP, rewound my cassette, raised the needle, and started again.