Word: mothers
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...happen to his rows of Docksiders in the closet. He has a system. Fancy clean Docksiders for dinner parties, medium-flavored Docksiders for walking around the island, and dirty, hole-filled Docksiders floppy soles and a distinct smell of dead crabs for the muddy sand in our backyard. My mother is always trying to throw them out, but they magically reappear every time to stink up the closet...
...kept thinking, that I can't tell my father how scared I am that he'll disappear? How his strong rower's body will shrivel up and his mind will lose all the things he knows about science and Churchill and art and boats. And how my mother will be alone. Me too. I still can't look him straight in the eyes, through his little tortoise-shell John Lennon glasses and try and say that I am not selfish and that I really do think about how he feels and not about my own petty problems. I guess that...
...mother and father had lunch with me under the dirty old tree in front of ABP on the very first day of Harvard. As the fall went on, I'd meet them there periodically because ABP was close to the T and out of the Yard. So, it came as no surprise when my mother suggested coffee one October afternoon so that she could drop off my winter coat. I was a little late and caught a glance of her scrutinizing the dry oatmeal cookies, the rust-colored, checked blazer my father had picked out six sizes too big last...
...sudden, it was senior year all over again. His trip down to Baltimore to get surgery, my pretend excuse for going there too--"Really, I'm visiting Hopkins and Georgetown." My father lying in bed, looking pretty good for someone being invaded by tubes and catheters, my nervous mother, all the shrimp and barbecue we ate down by the waterfront when my father was hungry again. I had thought that it was all over. The doctor had worked his magic on my surgeon-father so unaccustomed to playing the victim on the operating table rather than the needle-and-knife...
...mother's lips tautening, she told me that it was back. Reality had struck again, abruptly invading my college utopia. And Pop couldn't even bring himself to tell me in person--he had thought I was so happy at Harvard. "And we've known this for a few months," she was continuing. "We just wanted you to start school happy." I felt disgusting. I was the selfish daughter who hadn't even contemplated a return to this sickness--I was just reveling in the petty glories of being a careless freshman girl. I was worried about boys and chem...