Much has been on my mind. Much.
Life has been a ginormous-engantic blur since the January 6 Capitol insurrection.
I’ve skipped through days and nights with every notion of putting pen to monitor. “Roads are paved,” or whatever they say about good intentions.
Nothing like treading water in a hurricane.
Valentine’s Day. It happened. I tried. Honestly. It wasn’t spectacular and I felt badly for the poor execution. I pride myself on holidays. Surprises. Adventures. My family deserved better. I was distracted.
It’s been two years. My mama died February 14.
It’s more difficult now than it was then. That’s surprising. Unexpected.
For the most part, I stepped over the sadness and the memories.
Heart-shaped pancakes. Candy. Sparkling grape juice. A visit from our Valentine fairy, Ethel the Love Lady. Heart-shaped pizza. WONDER WOMAN 84 and movie-theatre popcorn. More candy. We rescheduled dinner and settled for the Sunday special at Taco Bell. So much for shrimp cocktails and stuffed chicken breasts with fettuccine.
No flowers. No teddy bears. No jewelry. No balloons. (For the record, I don’t have the battle-tested temperament for the balloon line at Dollar Tree I used to have.)
Vikki and Sophia and Miles didn’t have the day I wanted them to have. Right or wrong, that’s how I felt. Distracted, indeed.
Before Margaret held court in room 150 at North Forsyth or marked handbell music at Maple Springs, she sang.
My mama was a singer. An extraordinary voice.
One night in my youth, I was watching television. A lady was singing. I was kinda-sorta listening in the way only a teenager can fully understand.
“Mama! That lady sounds like you. What’s up with that?”
“Why do you say that?”
I was watching the screen.
“Look, look. See? She does that same thing you do. That Elvis lip-snarl thing at the corner of her mouth. That’s exactly what you do.”
My mama smiled.
It was true. Whenever Margaret sang, really sang, she would throw her head back and the corner of her mouth would curl up a bit. Her hand would cross in front and grasp at what I imagined to be an invisible martini glass or menthol cigarette. I don’t know. Maybe it was a lightning bolt. Whatever it was, it worked.
“That’s Sarah Vaughan. I wanted to sound like her. Do you like her?”
“That woman can sing! I love it.”
Today, I am playing a recording of Sarah Vaughan singing MISTY for my school children.
Valentine’s Day is finished. Maybe.
You are loved.
Jeffrey Griffin 