I walk into Duane Reade on a mission. I pass through the shampoo aisle, and the candy aisle, make a right turn at the display for coconut water. Then I see it — the Mother’s Day greeting card section.
It’s massive. A veritable sea of white and pink squares, and unlike the easier to navigate birthday card section, the Mother’s Day section isn’t broken down into any discernable categories save for “funny” and “not funny.” I bypass “funny” right away figuring it’s always best to go straight for the gut. If I’m going to write something for my mother I’m going to write something real, not cover up my true feelings behind a joke about how I’m glad she never put me up for adoption when I was an annoying teenager (and trust me, I definitely had my moments). I also don’t want one of those cards with ribbon threaded into it or sparkling with glitter that looks like it was stuck on by a two-year-old with a gluestick.
I stand there with the kind of purpose and focus only reserved for players during the big game at the bottom of the ninth. Then I spot it, a card with potential. I reach out, read the front, open it, put it back. Nope. Not quite right. I repeat the process again with the next card. Then the next.
Before long a young man who appears to be my age walks up next to me. He looks at the card section as if each one is written in a foreign language. WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW? he seems to silently plead. He eyes me with a sidelong look, trying to casually inspect the front of the card I’m holding, thinking perhaps I’m on to something. From the look on his face I can tell he doesn’t want to be here at all. He’s here because he knows if a card doesn’t show up in his mother’s mailbox before Mother’s Day he’s going to be disowned.
Either that or she’s going to stop paying the bill for his iPhone 5.
I give a slight nod to indicate the card I’m holding isn’t half bad, and he nods back before reaching out for his first attempt. I can’t say I’m surprised when he opts for “funny.” The card seems to make him chuckle a bit too, and without any further consideration he is set. A winning card on the first try? What luck. Or, I suspect as I reach out for card number four and watch him walk towards the register, he is doing what happens when you do what conventional manners tells you to do — just pick a card, any card. That’s all that matters.
I get that. You tend to lose motivation for these things when you do them year in and year out. After a while it’s simply going through the motions. Flowers on Valentine’s Day? Check. Card on birthdays? Check. Card AND flowers on Mother’s Day? Check. Check. I figure funny card guy already placed an order from 1-800-Flowers to be shipped directly to Mom, too. I also figure she won’t tell him when the tulips arrive looking smaller than the picture on the website and half dead.
The things we do for the people we love.
On the sixth try I find it, the winning card for Mom with the proper corresponding envelope that fits. Success! Feeling triumphant I take it home, sit down and write a message on the verso side.
Dear Mom,
I pause, pen in hand. Where to begin? There’s a lot to cover. A lot I haven’t had a chance to tell her.
I left Manhattan a few months ago.
Start big.
I live in Brooklyn now.
She’s going to freak out when she reads this.
Don’t worry it’s a great neighborhood. It’s safe, I promise.
That should help soften the blow.
The apartment is small, but you’d really love what I’ve done with it. Work is going well, and I finished the novel (took me long enough, right?!). Thanks for always believing in me. Also, before you ask, I don’t have a boyfriend.
Wait, do I even bother adding this? Won’t it just upset her? Cross it out. Instead write:
I’m not really dating anyone at the moment.
Better.
Remember how you always said men are just intimidated by me? I sort of feel like at this point maybe it’s something else? I don’t know. I mean aside from the obvious fact that I’m not as kind or as beautiful as you. It’s true! I don’t tell you that enough. You’re beautiful and wonderful and the kindest most caring mother I could have ever hoped for. Remember when I was little and I’d spread my arms out wide and say, “I love you THIS MUCH,” figuring that was the most I was physically capable of loving? I was wrong. It’s much, much more.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Done. Sign, date, lick the pink envelope, and seal it.
I write Mom’s name on the front along with the address of the house where I grew up, and stick it in the box under my bed. I don’t mail these cards anymore because unless there’s a USPS to heaven I’m fairly confident there’s no way they’d ever reach her. You see, the thing about going through the motions is that like anything else, when you no longer have a reason to do it you’ll inevitably miss it. Funny how that works, isn’t it?
That’s why I bought my mother a Mother’s Day card even though she’s no longer around to read it.
After she died I looked on with envy at the people hovering over the greeting card section, yearning from a distance to be one of them. I would watch from the sidelines as they picked up a card, read a few lines, shrugged or smiled before putting it back and selecting another. I missed being able to do that, to buy a card for the person who meant so much to me in the twenty-three years I was fortunate enough to have her.
Eight years later I’ve reclaimed the day as best I can. Mother’s Day is now a day where we catch up. It’s a day where it’s just the two of us and a card I specifically buy for her. I know she’s not around to actually read them, but writing it down — the little things that are happening in my life, telling her I love her, and sealing and filing it away makes me think that maybe, somehow, she’s heard me.
Not long after she died I came across a stack of old cards she had kept over the years. Wouldn’t you know, she saved almost every Mother’s Day card I ever gave her. Because unlike the things we naturally first cling to when someone dies — the jewelry that ends up stored safely away, the perfume bottles that dry up, the hair brushes that are thrown out, the clothes, books, scarves, and shoes that are donated to someone who needs them — there are some things that don’t disappear.
Like the words between two people written in a card bought at Duane Reade.
Words, I wish I told the young guy who was just checking the Mother’s Day box like we’ve all done before, matter. And since my words meant something to my mom I figure I’ll keep writing them for her each Mother’s Day. They will serve as a reminder regardless of how old I become or how long the years press on that separate us from the last time we saw each other — eight, fifteen, thirty — that she existed.
That while she may be gone, the things that matter at least, live on.