My mother was born on June 6th, 1955. Funny how I forget all sorts of things, but her birthday I could sing in my sleep since I was a kid. Her ID number too.
Not long ago I read a book where Georgi Gospodinov writes about the life and death of his father. It was so full of stories that I couldn’t help wondering: what stories could I tell about my mother?
I remember a few, I told myself. But I’ll start losing them, and who knows how many are already gone. One day they’ll be priceless.
And “one day” no longer feels like it lives somewhere in an endless future.
On her usual weekly sleepover at my place, I poured her a glass of wine, took out my phone and left it recording next to her. The conversation drifted, the way it does, to my grandparents. Her parents. That’s where I started the interview. How did they meet? What were they like as kids? What kind of life did they live? I heard stories I knew by heart, and some I’d never heard before.
Turns out that when Mom was little, people didn’t take taxis. They took carriages. Horse-drawn, with elegant, plush seats, just like in the movies. Carriages! I still can’t get over it.
This woman started her life in horse carriages, and today she chats with artificial intelligence. Maybe I should be more patient when she asks me “annoying” questions.
The past few years, things have been different. When we climb the stairs to my apartment, every now and then she performs a little one-act play called It’s Not Hard for Me, I Just Want to Tell You Something Interesting. When she runs out of breath, she says something supposedly interesting and stops dramatically, as if the pause were part of the story. Nine times out of ten, it doesn’t land. It’s obvious the stairs are just hard for her. Now I stop too, and laugh with her. Ten times out of ten.
I started stopping once I figured out why there’s a random chair on one of the landings. The first time I saw it, I had no idea. Now I do. Someone else’s mother, just like mine, started getting winded between floors. Until one day her son said, okay, let’s put a chair here. And she never took the stairs in one go again.
Every time Mom leaves, she mutters that I’ve got nothing to sit on in the hallway, so a person can’t put their shoes on in peace. Last time I thought, why don’t I just bring out a chair? But what if she takes offense?
She didn’t. She beamed. She sat down, let out a breath, and put on her shoes in peace. I know anyone would like that. But I also know that a few years ago, a chair wouldn’t have put that much relief in her voice.
Things are different now. And it feels like they are going to keep changing.
