She was by no means perfect. Her skin did not always glow. After the first round of radiation he had feared that it would. Green or gold, like in the comics. She had long blond hair, but it was frequently tangled and dull. She was not always attentive or fun. Though… he does remember walking into the kitchen one morning to find her, in her hole ridden cotton nightgown, twirling Lizzie around to Patti Smith's "Gloria" as she made breakfast.
A curly blond head shaking. A little girls sticky face buried in her shoulder, giggles smothered by skin
. "Ohhhh I'll put a spell on you. I will. That's right Girly. I will! You think that's funny do ya? Huh? Is that funny?"
She was not the perfect wife. She snapped a lot. She started fights with his father, especially towards the end, but they always made up.
Her blond head tucked into his dad's shoulder, tears leaking onto soft cotton, his dad's hands clutching at her sweater.
" I'm sorry Will. I'm just…I'm sorry…" in a small voice, " I'm scared."
She didn't make all of his little league games. Sometimes because of the chemo, sometimes just because.
"I'll be at the next one Lucas, I promise."
She lied. She left them. She didn't come home.
His father, crouched down to reach his eyes, face oddly blank, eyes wet.
"Mommy couldn't come to the game scout, I don't think she'll be coming to any more of them."
Sometimes he feared that all he would remember would be the imperfections, when he was angry. He had been so angry then.
The sounds are too much; a glass hitting the wall, Lizzie's wails, his own, feet pounding on the pavement. Where is he going? He presses his hands into his eyes and it hurts. Everything hurts. There is nowhere to run to in this town. No one to run to. He wants his mother. He collapses onto the grass about a mile from his house and wipes his small hands on the faded yellow fabric of his favorite shirt. Spent he then stands and walks calmly home. He can't stay here. His sister needs him. His father needs him
Sometimes he worries instead that he will forget her imperfections. That he will remember merely a stereotype, or a cliché, the outline given by his father, her friends, the town, that he will not remember his mother. That he will not remember her temper. Will not remember the occasional cigarettes that she had supposedly stopped smoking years before. That he will not remember her quiet laugh.
" Oh, Lucas come here. Honey you have a smudge just," Her lips had twitched. "Just…right there." trying valiantly to keep a straight face as she wiped off only a bit of the fudge covering his pudgy face.
" Mommy I made cake"
He was so afraid to let her fade into nothing but a collection of worn wrinkled photos. Nothing but a name carved into a stone. He was so afraid to remember. It wasn't fair, and that didn't matter. He couldn't fix it, not at eight or at 10, at 20, at 30, at 45 still he couldn't fix it and he was afraid she was slipping away. He has a child of his own now.
" Dad I made cake."
He doesn't know what to tell his daughter about the woman who was both such a small and such a large part of his life and so he takes out the pictures. His hands shake as he smoothes his fingers over an expression he's always feared forgetting while he looks at his mothers smile on his daughters face.
She was by no means perfect but what is important is that she Was.