Life for you, (who we are) has been less than kind // So take a number, (who we are) stand in line // We’ve all been sorry, (who we are) we’ve all been hurt //But how we survive, (who we are) is what makes us who we are.
“Tell me something I don’t know” she mumbles as she reaches to turn off the phone alarm. Despite the morning grumpiness, the song is one of her favorites, and she keeps singing as she stumbles to the bathroom.
“All smiles and sunshine, a perfect world on a perfect day // Everything always works out, I have never felt so fucking great”
She reaches for her toothbrush and toothpaste, the first part of her morning routine, humming in her head and allowing her mind to wander. There is something comforting in the routine, brushing her teeth, washing her face, making silly faces while putting her make up. This morning, however, was different. As she reached up for the towel to dry her face, she saw it. Her mother’s face looking at her in the mirror. The dark reddish-brown hair, the brown eyes that seemed to be the first thing anyone noticed, the smile that seemed to say there was a great inside joke that you weren’t lucky enough to be a part of. The shock of it took her breath away, but it wasn’t until she gripped the sink to steady herself that she realized it wasn’t her mother. It was her own face.
“When the fuck did that happen” she thought, shaking her head to try to keep going about her routine to keep the memories from flooding her. “Last thing I need to do is start crying and have to do my make up all over again.” She dresses quickly, throwing her favorite maroon sweater over a tank top, pulling on her pinstriped slacks and almost as an afterthought slipping on her black heels. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that she was running a few minutes behind, as usual, “Good thing I drive fast, and I suppose they can’t really start Christmas without me.” She reached into her jewelry jar for her Emerald solitaire ring, a 16th birthday present from her grandparents, and with it came a necklace that fell to the floor in her rush. She jammed the ring on her finger and bent to pick up the necklace, not really realizing which one it was until she gripped it.
She was instantly 6 years old again, all pigtails and missing teeth, “Mommy, can I pick out which one you wear?” she said opening the the etched glass door to the massive jewelry container.
“Yes. But be careful with that, you know you are a little bull in a china shop” her mother called from the bathroom.
“Yes Amá,” she answered, instantly formal, cautiously reaching in and spinning the rack that housed all the necklaces. There were so many to choose from, silver, gold, long, short, multiple strands, simple, sparkling and gemmed alike, but she knew exactly which one she would pick. Eying the sterling silver box chain, she gently untangled from the multitude of necklaces, careful to not break anything. Being allowed to help with this was an honor she loved, but rarely got to participate in, especially not for an event such as Christmas. She held the chain up, and looked at the pendant in awe. It was her favorite and her young mind was quite sure it was the prettiest thing she had ever seen. A filigreed marcasite cross inlaid with a small amethyst on each arm and one in the center, an inch long and half an inch wide on a diamond-cut silver box chain. Both the chain and the cross sparkled in any light, and the necklace very often drew compliments. She turned to head toward the bathroom and bumped the glass door slightly, wincing and shutting it quietly, hoping her mother hadn’t heard. She didn’t want to wreck this moment, like she had so many others. She walked softly into the bathroom, trying to be as proper as she could, “You should wear this one, Amá.”
Her mother put the finishing touches on her lipstick, and glanced at her in the mirror, “That is a good choice for today. Maybe you aren’t completely hopeless after all.” She smiled and handed her mother the necklace, too young to catch the sarcastic tone. After slipping the necklace over her head, her mother turned to her, “How does it look?”
“Beautiful, Amá” she said breathlessly. She nodded slightly, excusing herself in the quiet way she knew was preferred, “Happy Birthday”, and with that walked carefully out of the room.
Shaking her head, she came back to the present, brief snippets of a thousand memories flashing before her quickly. She closed her eyes and willed them all away, four years later they were still too painful. In spite of the many, many bad years, she missed her mother terribly, wishing they could have been friends for longer. Starting to put the necklace back in the jar, she changed her mind and slipped it over her head, smiling her mother’s smile as she adjusted the cross into place, “Guess I’m not completely hopeless after all. Happy Birthday indeed, Amá”. And with that she turned and headed out the door.
But how we survive, is what makes us who we are.
