In the 11 years that I lived in New York City, only once do I remember a thunderstorm. I mean a real thunderstorm, like the ones I saw growing up in Mississippi. Biblical, torrential, show-off sort of storms. Rain so thick it’s opaque; surround-sound, kick-drum kind of thunder; lightning that ricocheted across branches and rooftops for miles on end. Nature’s very own disco ball.
On this particular New York City night, I was sleeping over at my then-boyfriend/now-husband’s apartment. It was an old brick-and-vinyl-side building on Humboldt St. in Italian Williamsburg with a hissing, clanking radiator that fogged up the room during winter. But this was a warm summer night, and it was the first time I told my husband about my love of thunderstorms.
When I was a little girl, my dad didn’t wanted me to be afraid of thunderstorms, so he’d open a rickety old fold-out chair—the kind with an aluminum frame and wooden slats—and invite me to sit with him. From inside the safety of our garage and in the comfort of his arms, I’d curl into his lap to watch those biblical Mississippi storms. We’d eat kiwi or plums and sit in silence, in awe of the all-natural spectacle, listening for the distance between the thunder roll and the lightning strike (to borrow from Garth Brooks).
Just the other day, we had one of those storms in North Carolina.
“Wanna watch for a while?” my husband asked after we crawled into bed. We laid in silence, tucked into our cool linen sheets, and watched the storm until our eyes were heavy, just like that night in Brooklyn. Even when my lids had fallen and I was no longer watching for lightning, I rested easy knowing it was there, piercing its way through the darkness.
Like a plant craning its neck to the window, I’m always looking for light. As a kid, I remember dozing off in the passenger’s seat of my mom’s car as she ushered me here and there, and how the sun flickered between trees, pulsing quickly, like a film strip across my eye lids. I prefer tropical weather to snowy climates, beaches over mountains. I am the one who volunteers to sit in direct sunlight when most are searching for shade. I want the sun singeing my skin, warming my shoulders. I want to squint at its radiance.
A few weeks ago, I bought my daughter a pair of pajamas with a sunshine print. The pants were dotted in cute, smiling suns. The t-shirt read, “You are my sunshine.” My mom used to sing me this song, which is actually a rather sad song, but to my mother, this was truth. My brother and me, we were the sun, the center to which all things would orbit.
“Do you see what this says?” I asked my daughter. I read each word aloud. “I love these pajamas because Sitti used to sing me that song when I was a little girl. Do you want to hear the song?”
My daughter nodded, so I sang “You are my sunshine” to my imploring toddler. As always when I sing to her, her wide, blue eyes focused on my mouth as it moved. I thought, when I finished, we could talk more about my mom. We like to talk about all the things my mom was good at, like making us feel special. But instead, at the last note, my daughter burst into tears. Shocked, I pulled her close to me.
“Oh no, I didn’t mean to make you cry,” I said, clutching her mess of blonde hair to my chest. Was my own sadness too much for my toddler to bear? Could she hear the longing in my voice?
“Did that song make you feel sad?” I asked. She nodded her head and said, “I miss Sitti.”
“I know, love. I miss Sitti, too.”
When I read the news, I sometimes wonder why I brought two children into this world. I worry about their future. I am uneasy about my daughter’s autonomy over her body. I wonder how much worse it can get.
Every day I watch my children blossom and I ache for my mother. With each of my son’s gummy grins, I wish for her. I imagine how she would coo over him. When my daughter plays quietly, making up her own adventures between Elsa and Anna, I feel a pang that my mother is not here watching with me. Her absence is deafening, and witnessing my children’s vibrance only exacerbates our loss. I see so clearly the empty space my mother would have otherwise filled with her love, joy, and light.
Still, every night I say “thank you.” Thank you that we are all under one roof—that we have a roof. Thank you that we are healthy and strong, with the promise of waking up tomorrow. Thank you for our tender hearts. Thank you, mom, for showing us how to love. Thank you for the sun, thank you for the storms. We are lucky to have so much light.
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Once again -beautiful ! I’m reading the book you sent, Signs and I see this as a sign that your mom is watching over your precious family. Hug sweet R and G for me. Love you and your amazing stories. ❤️❤️