I realized just recently that many of the stories that I write about have to do with my Mom.
I've called her a bad cook, a bad baker, a bad seamstress and a bad shopper. So I thought it would only be fair to read my blogs to her and let her know what embarassing things I'm throwing out into cyberspace.
Instead of getting angry, like I thought she might as I read aloud to her, she laughs and asks me to keep reading story after story. She constantly interrupts me, shares a memory sparked by my words, eager to elaborate, clarify or give me the background to something I had already written.
"You should have said something about how good it smells." she says, when hearing what I have to say about the magic of the rain in the desert.
I watch the memories in my Mom's eyes glistening, sometimes tearing, especially at the memory of my dear, late, Hu'uli. She laughs about the story with the fly, picturing it clearly in her head.
I read until my voice is hoarse. My eyes are heavy and the battery laptop burning on my thighs.
My Mom listens with her eyes closed.
"Mom, go to bed. I'll read you the rest tomorrow."
"I'm listening." she says with her eyes closed.
The two of us sit side by side on the couch, listening to the small clicking noises of my keyboard and the hum of the air conditioner.
My family has long since gone to bed and it's just the two of us, sharing memories and sitting in patient (and impatient) silence.
Everytime I think she's about to get up, to make her way to my daughter's room to go to sleep, she readjusts herself and gets more comfortable.
I keep typing away. Having read out loud to my Mom, I've noticed all the typos, awkward sentences, comma splices and tense shifts. There's no chance for me to fix them of course, she's asked for another story.
"Are you mad about the things I'm writing about?" I ask her with a smile on my face. She immediately responds, "No." but I know that she isn't done speaking, she's simply pausing. "It's your opinion." she says with a hint of a laugh. "It's the way YOU see things."
We sit in silence, smiling for a few minutes in a room that has suddenly gotten too dark.
Finally she says, "Okay, it's all probably true."
I read her what I've written so far. She listens intently and just nods her head, chuckling.
She's given her approval. It's time for bed.
I won't ask her today, but I wonder if that means it's okay for me to write about the time my brother was being obnoxious by prancing around the house like a deer, and she caught up with him with her broomstick...