The Next Episode
The heat comes out of nowhere. In the produce section I want to grab a pomelo and place the cool rind to the back of my neck. Talking to my neighbor about the increase in petty crime, stolen shoes from our porch, a rivulet down my breastbone. I know from Google the heat is exacerbated by my iced coffee intake, by the stress over my older teenage daughter closing alone in the wee hours after her summer dishwashing job, by waiting up on the couch with my bowl of frozen blueberries, such relief when she comes through the front door. We stay up eating cobbler with our fingers out of the paper container she’s brought home from the restaurant. I’m sure the pre-dawn sugar doesn’t help, but these moments are delicious, and I’ll take delicious when it comes. I used to love to dance until I got sweaty. Now I love gangsta rap and hip-hop in the air-conditioned car. My daughters sometimes call me Dre, short for madre. I changed my ringtone to “Still D.R.E.” because I love it and because it’s funny because I am a middle-aged perimenopausal white woman who owns multiple rompers and scrolls Instagram for summer salad recipes and rescue dog stories. The motherfuckin’ D-R-E. I buy a giant black sunhat to protect my aging skin because I saw it on Instagram. It’s not quite right on me, but I wear it anyway. My daughters tell me it’s “giving pilgrim.” They tell me my new blue sneakers are “giving Cookie Monster.” My pants are “giving 18th century Frenchman.” My hair is “giving triangle.” I am always giving something. Their own manes are lustrous, their skin dewy but not spongey like mine. I fall in love with them every time I look at them. I think of a line from a short story I read once about all parents having unrequited love for their children. I want to swim in the river with them like we did when they were little, never mind the spider veins, the pilgrim vibes, the vaguely unhinged look I have from intermittent heavy sweating and lack of sleep, but my daughters want to go alone to the swimming hole. I can’t blame them. We’ll take you next time, Mama, they call from the car, their long hair flying out the windows.
About the Author
Jamie Passaro’s articles, interviews, and essays have been published in the New York Times, the Washington Post parenting blog, The Atlantic.com, Oregon Humanities, The Sun, Full Grown People, Utne Reader, and other publications. She lives in Eugene, Oregon, where she runs an obituary business called dear person, works in an independent bookstore, mothers two teenage daughters, and officiates an occasional wedding.
