When I was a teenager, and I got in trouble for smoking cigarettes at the mall, my mom grounded me. I remember curling up like a little shell on my bed, sobbing, as my mom gave me a stern lecture about the dangers of tobacco.
Suddenly, a sly look flashed across her face as she said, “But what kind of cigarettes were they? … I used to smoke Camels.”
Mine were Winston Ultra Lights, but that’s beside the point.
The point is that this story summarizes my mom. She knew the rules, and she played by them. But there was also a wild streak that she rarely indulged, a cheeky side that I only saw in bursts and flickers.
Today is the 12th anniversary of her death, and for some reason it’s hitting me hard this year.
I often wonder if she had known how it would end, would she have lived her life differently? I don’t mean smoking cigarettes or even tearing through a to-do list à la Queen Latifah in “Last Holiday.” But something in between. How would she have inhabited her days?
I think about how my mom occasionally took the long route home from church, the country road that meandered past a farm with peacocks, simply because she wanted to catch a glimpse of the colors. Perhaps she would have taken the scenic route more often. Maybe it would’ve been all scenic routes.
I remember how she denied herself pleasure simply to keep up appearances or to fit into a specific pair of pants or to follow someone else’s playbook, and none of that matters anymore. It never mattered.
Maybe today, in honor of my mom’s passing, you could indulge yourself. Eat a pastry you’ve never tried before. Play a new sport. Take the long road. Sing out loud. Wear something sparkly. Devour a mango and let it be juicy. Love something fiercely.
“We’re nothing but brief bodies,” writes poet Joy Sullivan, which is true, and we deserve to lead scrumptious lives. Do something wonderful and succulent today.