Dear Mother,
Do you remember our first Derby? I do. I remember you tying my red tie in only the most proper of ways, before dipping down to kiss me on my forehead, filling my nostrils with just a bit of Arpège, and saying, “D’accord, mon cher! Allez-y!”
Do you remember all of those end-of-summer trips in Vail? I do. I remember you taking me shopping in all of the little boutiques, lunching with me as if I were an adult when I was only fourteen years old, and speaking to me of your next great literary project. (And asking me about mine.)
Do you remember the only time you and I ever shared martinis and cigarettes? In our favorite cafe in Evanston? I do. I remember being shocked that you ordered a martini and asked to share my cigarette. I remember your words to me, “I cannot believe you inherited your father’s eyes and his hair. You so should have my hair. But those eyes, mon cher, those eyes will one day make someone fall in love with you. Just like they did to me.”
I may not have your hair. But I have your spirit. And your love. And your joie de vivre.
And this is why, every once in a while, I need to thank you for bringing me into this beautiful, crazy, messed up world.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Tu me manques.
With much love,
Atherton Bartelby
She was right, you know. Those eyes made me fall in love with you.
Et tu me manques, aussi.
I agree about your eyes. Although I do rather like your hair as well, you know. There is nothing about you someone would find hard to love. You make your mother proud, Cancerian!
Painter: Thank you, kind sir. You do realize that although I may sometimes be momentarily cantankerous with you that you still have a special place in my heart, no?
AV: Thank you, my dear! I rather like my hair, as well; Mother’s brunette has tempered Father’s blond as I have aged. And may I say that you make your mother proud, as well, Scorpion?