Tender memories of Mom

Around age eight or nine, romping in the woods beyond the end of our street, and by the brook, around the pond and the abandoned Girl Scout camp was a big part of my time.

I would collect sticks in the woods, sticks that resembled guns or swords or sticks that were good for poking in the mud of the pond. I kept my collection of sticks behind a rhododendron bush that was just to the left as you approached our front porch.

Some of the sticks were falling apart, abandoned sticks had accumulated as newer, fresher sticks were gained. The pile of sticks, if you thought about the appearance and presentation of the house, was an issue.

One day Mom came to me in a calm, gentle moment and said, “Stephen,” (she was the only person who called me Stephen) “can we have a conversation about your sticks?”

The way she put it. We made a compromise where I kept the most important sticks. Every time we saw each other I felt fairly dealt with on the matter of sticks.

Many times around age nine (dropping off and picking up my sister at a class?) Mom and I walked in the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. I was drawn to the giant statue of Mycerinus (who wouldn’t be?) Forever after, whenever the MFA came up, sometimes for no reason at all, my mom would invoke the magical name of Mycerinus.

(Kind of resentful they’ve made his name Menkaure, less melodious. How did a guy who died 4500 years ago get renamed in the last 30?)

Sometimes in adulthood I’d tell my mom about sending something off, to a publisher or a studio or something. Several times Mom said something like, “it must be so hard to let something go.”

Only later did it occur to me she might’ve been trying to share something about herself.

(source)