IT’S A GOOD DAY to visit Mom. A million birds are weaving their little voices through the breeze. Mom liked birds. She could imitate birdcalls for fifteen different species, and giggled like a little girl when the birds answered her back.
Lots of puffy clouds shuffle across the sky, which is the kind of bright blue that only comes on spring days before the summer haze settles on the hills. We live in Vermont, in a college town on the shores of Lake Champlain, and our summers are blistering and humid. They’re still my favorite time of year, and not just because school is out.
We park and climb up the hill to the upper part of the cemetery where Mom is. Even though it’s early, I’m already wishing I hadn’t worn a turtleneck. I fix my eyes on the top line of the hill as we climb, watching Mom’s headstone slowly appear over the summit, until finally we’re standing at the foot of Mom’s grave, next to the empty plot Dad depressingly got for himself.
Xander is the first to see the letters, and she falls on her knees. They’re taped to Mom’s headstone, each in a plastic baggie. The writing is unmistakable.
Of course she would write to us on our first Mother’s Day without her.
Xander rips hers off the headstone and leans against the tree Mom’s buried under. She doesn’t even seem to notice the bee buzzing around her hair as she reads. I take mine and lie down on top of Mom’s grave.
Dear Zen,
Happy Mother’s Day, sweetheart. How’s my little chickadee?
Well, if the doctors are right, it should be about ten months after I’ve expired. I hope by now you’ve gotten used to my being gone. You’re not the type to wallow, and neither is Xander. So I’m not worried that you’ve gained fifty pounds, or joined a cult. But I do hope that you’re finding ways to have fun.
With that in mind, there is something I would like you to do for me. It’s your junior year, and I want you to go to the prom. I know you don’t like to do anything girly, but I really think you could miss out on something special. Branch out of your world a little. Life isn’t all jumping sidekicks, after all.
And because I enjoy infuriating you from the great beyond (and also because I don’t trust you to go without some pressure), I’ve chosen your dress and your date. Your dress should be arriving this week in the mail, and your date is Adam Little. After all, you two are good friends, and you’ll have fun together.
Adam agreed to this months ago, so there’s no point in being embarrassed about it now. (It’s remarkable what you can get people to do when you’re on your deathbed.)
And don’t try to weasel out of this. I’m watching. Have fun, sweetie.
Love always,
Mom
I can’t believe Mom has done this to me.
Actually, yes I can. She was always a meddler.
I hear a cry of outrage and look over to see Xander scrunching her lips together in the way she does when she’s furious. “No! No way!”
“What? Is Mom making you do something too?”
“She can’t make me do anything.” She smashes up her letter and throws it on the ground, but the breeze pushes at it until it starts to roll, so she runs after it.
“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” I say to her when she sits back down, leaning against Mom’s headstone.
“She told Grandma I was coming over to spend the evening with her for Mother’s Day. But I won’t! I won’t do it!”
“Lucky,” I say. “She’s making me go to the prom.”
Her jaw drops and she stares at me, her dark eyes brimming with glee. “Oh, that’s a good one!”
“It’s not funny!”
“Are you kidding? It’s hysterical!” She holds her belly and rolls on the grass. She laughs so hard, she almost makes me see the humor. Almost. “Who are you supposed to go with? All the decent guys are taken already!”
I drop my head. There’s no avoiding it. She’s going to find out sooner or later. “Adam.”
Complete silence. “Oh. My. God.”
“Yep.”
“How the hell did she rope him into that, do you think?”
“He didn’t have to be roped!”
“Oh, trust me. He was roped.”
“What’s so awful about going to the prom with me?”
“Well, for one thing, he has no chance of scoring with you. Whatsoever.”
“Just because I’m not a slut like you doesn’t make me totally closed off.”
“Then why don’t you ever go out on dates?”
“Because no one asks me.”
“Because you give out ice queen signals.”
“I can’t help it if I’m naturally reserved.”
“You’re naturally frigid.”
“Let’s just pay our respects and get out of here.” I pick at the weeds growing around the ivory-colored stone and brush away the dirt collecting in the carved letters.
Marie Lillian Vogel
1965–2007
Beloved Wife and Mother
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
The poem is by Percy Shelley. My dad chose it for her because they met in graduate school in a class on English Romantic poetry, and because Mom loved birds so much. The poem is sort of about a bird, but it could also be about a woman. I guess it’s a good choice for her tombstone, though Xander doesn’t think so. She wanted to have them engrave lyrics from Mom’s favorite Rolling Stones song. When Xander suggested it, Dad said, “Nothing Mick Jagger says is going on your mother’s tombstone!”
“‘Ruby Tuesday’ was Mom’s favorite song!”
“The lyrics don’t even make sense!”
“The Stones never make sense! That’s not the point!”
I didn’t want to fight about it, but the epitaph I wanted wasn’t by a poet or a rock band. It was something Mom whispered to us herself on her last day alive: “Every moment with you has been wonderful.”
That’s the kind of thing that should be carved in stone.