The First Son

My face puckered in horror at the text my mother's girlfriend, Bertie has sent me for my mom.

"Yeah, baby this pussy is what you crave like White Castle?!" I read out loud my voice high pitched in disgust. "MOM, WHAT THE ACTUAL F-" I caught myself. I was always funny about swearing in front of Mom, "FUNNEL CAKES!" I finished.

"Mahdi," said Mom, in her fruity, laid back voice, "First off, you are a 26-year-old man, say fuck like other people your age. Secondly, why is it so shocking to you, after all these years, that I'm a highly sexual person?"

"I know that," I said, "I just don't want the mental imagery is all."

We were in Mom's backyard, watching the sunset. Mom's sunflowers, zinnias, and daffodils seemed to come alive in the warm glow of blood orange hue with a splash of gold. The air smelled of the sweet cinnamon coming from Mom's oatmeal raisin cookies that she baked earlier.

"Why are you so adamant about not using cuss words in front of me, Mahdi?" asked Mom. Her golden-brown complexion seemed radiant bathed in the setting sunlight. "My ears are not so delicate you know, you forget I grew up with Claudine Peyroux as my mother."

"I find it dishonorable to curse in front of my mom," I said solemnly.

My mom beamed as she ran her long fingers through my curly hair that was so much like hers before she locked it.

"You have grown up to be such a fine young man," she said, looking at me with that familiar fixture of sadness and happiness. Mom always did that when looking directly in my eyes. She said it was because they were the same color as my father's: granny smith apple green. I wonder who he was and why did he make her cry?

"I wouldn't be the fine young man I am without the fine middle-aged women sitting before me," I said grinning mischievously.

Mom laughed, her neatly locked hair falling around her dark, starry eyes.

"I could never deny you if I wanted to," she said, "Except for when you say funnel cake instead of fuck."

"Oh, nice comeback," I said. "Reflexes sharp as ever, Sarabi."

"Thank you, Simba," said Mom, flexing her bicep. "How's Nadira? I haven't seen her around lately."

"She's been busy preparing for her finals," I said. "I might ask her to take a break with me and go to the mall."

"Please do," said Mom. "I'm not knocking the need for education, that's always important, but damn, you kids aren't machines you know."

"You know how much uptight Nadira gets when it comes to studying, Mom," I said. "She makes Hermione Granger look like Kelly Bundy."

"Jesus, that bad, huh?" said Mom, looking thoughtfully, her index finger tracing her upper lip. "Soon, she'll be disappointed to see that life is more than good grades and Dean's lists."

"She knows that, mom," I said. "She's just competitive as hell. Has to be the best at everything."

"And that's why you love her," said Mom matter-of-factly. "Your need to challenge each other to do better motivates you guys and keeps the relationship fresh."

The sun was out of sight completely. Now the flowers were shrouded in blue, swaying gently in the slight breeze. My mom sighed, as she glanced at her watch, looking tired, and for once, older. 20 years of working as a journalist with documentaries covering human rights abuse, blood diamond trade, and other controversies did that to you. My mom had seen the ugliest sides of humanity and still remained loving and kind. She was now working on a piece concerning celebrity sexual assaults. She had been inspired by the #MeToo movement that was gaining momentum and worked sleepless nights piecing together the documentary. She told me she had an exclusive story, one person that she knew for sure had gotten away with his horrible crimes. She wouldn't tell me the intricate details, and I didn't press. Mom didn't play around when it came to her professional life and personal life. She made sure a fine line was drawn between the two.

The two of us went back inside the house through the kitchen where the oatmeal raisin cookies resided in a ceramic Chewbacca cookie jar that Mom made for Bertie for her 38th birthday in June. Bertie was a big Star Wars nerd, something me and her shared. I grabbed a few from the jar before following Mom in living room, where she was gathering all her belongings.

"How long will you be gone for this time?" I asked. Even though I was used to my mom being going for long stretches of time, the goodbyes still made me feel like the little boy I'd once been, crying, attempting to chase after the Taxi that Mom was in, but Grandma and abuelo both held me, consoling me as the Taxi turned the corner and disappeared.

"Nothing's etched in stone yet," said Mom, slipping on a black denim jacket and beanie hat, "But most likely a month. Don't look so down," she added, observing my disappointed look, "you still have Bertie, Nadira, and Kaif here, I'll be back before you even know it."

"I know," I said, "I just wish you didn't work so hard. I can't remember the last time you and I sat in the garden and talked like that."

My mother gave a small, sad smile.

"I'm sorry, Prince," she said. "I promise, after I wrap this documentary up, I'll take a long and well-deserved break. And I won't break that promise like last time."

She hugged me tight and kissed me on the cheek. I smelled the lemongrass that she had an affinity for.

"See you soon, Mom," I said, as she headed out the door. "I love you."

"Love you more, sweetie," said Mom. She was about to close the door behind her, when suddenly, she turned around and said, "Mahdi, one more thing."

"Yeah?"

A sly grin crept upon my mom's face.

"Text Bertie and tell her when I return, I shall eat that pussy like a watermelon!"