My Mother the Post Office

My mother and I talked till two a.m. “There’s still a crack in my windshield,” she told me. “Dude,” I said, “just duct tape it.” “I can’t even afford duct tape,” she said; “give me some for Christmas.” “I can’t afford duct tape, either, Mom,” I said. “Steal some from your godfather,” she advised. “Right,” I said, “I’ll give you duct tape and a couple joints in your Christmas stocking.”

“I met Alita’s son and his long-distance girlfriend,” she told me. She and Alita work together at the post office. “He couldn’t stop smiling. I think they might be one of those couples that hit it right the first time, you know?” I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. “And,” she continued, “they’re both the products of, you know, long marriages. I think those people might have a better idea. Of, like, relationships.” My parents were never married; I’ve never met my father. “Awesome,” I said, rolling my eyes.

One time? We were walking in downtown Amherst, Massachusetts, near where I went to college. And I was like, “Mom, your perfume smells gooood.” “It should,” she answered, “this shit’s more expensive than drugs!”

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