I wonder what sparked the random memory. “I was always a vampire for Halloween because of my widow’s peak.” Most of Mom’s memories are connected, in one way or another, to the men revolving in and out of our lives at that time. I wait for an old-boyfriend connection, but it doesn’t come.
Mom looks up at my forehead. “Oh yeah.”
We make it to the grave where a wreath of long-dead flowers is staked in the ground. The black marble stone simply bears Jasper’s name and the dates of his birth and death.
“Here lies Jasper Sutton, he loved his bird but hated mutton.”
I look at Mom with her lavender lips and laugh. It’s been so long since I’ve heard Mom make up little rhymes, I’ve forgotten that she used to do it all the time. You could say she was the OG rapper of her time.
She smiles at me. “Does it say that?”
“Yes. Of course.”
She points to the gravestone next to Jasper. “Who is that?”
“Jedediah Sutton.”
“Jasper’s twin.” Mom looks over her shoulder before she whispers, “Those boys were gay as a box of sprinkles.”
Which explains why the uncles never married or had children.
“But we don’t talk about that.”
“It’s not a crime to be gay.” Not like marrying a first cousin.
“Who’s that?” Mom points to another ledger stone.
I scrunch up my eyes and read, “?‘Donald Aiken.’ Died in 1922.”
She cocks her head in contemplation. “Here lies Donny Aiken. He said he was sick, but folks thought he was fakin’.”
I laugh and join in. “It says, ‘Here lies Donny Aiken, he hated peas but loved his bacon.’?”
Mom winces. “That wasn’t any good.”
So much for joining in.
“Momma’s over there.” She points to the far corner of the cemetery, where the Spanish moss is thickest.
I was a sophomore in college when my grandmother died. She passed during finals week, and I didn’t attend her funeral. I know I should have felt bad about that, but I didn’t really. Truthfully, I felt bad for not feeling bad.
Whenever we visited Grandmother Lily in Tennessee, she always acted so happy to see us. She’d hug me up in her perfumed linen and lace and gush, “Awwww, cher baby.” It sounded so beautiful in my ear, but I was only Grandmother’s dear baby on her own schedule. For an hour or two, I’d be the center of her attention, and she’d shower me with love and praise. Then it was like she was ruled by a kitchen timer that only she could hear; when it rang, she was done. No more kisses and hugs or storybooks. Just, “You run al
ong, cher, go.” I felt like a doll she put up on a shelf. Forgotten until she took me down again. As a kid, I was confused and hurt. I wondered what I’d done wrong. I wanted her to care about me. As a teenager, I stopped caring.
No doubt Grandmother’s push-and-pull impacted Mom’s life and shaped who she is. It explains Mom’s relationships with everyone in her life—especially me.
I stop next to a bench dedicated to Suzanna “Sugie Bee” Verot and rock back as if I’ve been slammed with a big bag of duh. Mom’s also ruled by a timer that only she can hear.
In my sociology class in college, I wrote a paper on Mom and determined that her male attention-seeking and hypersexuality, as demonstrated by her ability to fall in and out of love seemingly on a whim, was due to severe daddy issues. I’d thought I had her all figured out, but I didn’t. At least not fully. Mom falls in and out of love not necessarily on a whim, but according to a capricious timer that only she can hear. When it rings, she’s done.
I shift the heavy bucket back to the other hand and catch up with Mom. I understand her more than I did just a few moments ago, and I certainly understand that she’s a better mother than Lily.
“You’ll need to tell Earl about my passing.”
“You might outlive him.”
“A lot of people will want to know. We have to make a list.”