A step on the basketball court. At least seven sets of keys. Innumerable sunglasses. One time, my underwear. Well, maybe more than once. It was a bone of contention with my boyfriend at the time.
My train of thought when I first laid eyes on my future husband at Boston Pride. My inhibitions, when–fortified with a Jäger shot–I accosted him on the dance floor, licked his armpits, and introduced myself as the love of his life. Shortly thereafter, my anal virginity.
Contact with college friends. The words to the act of contrition. For our team, the Pillow Biters, the gay basketball championship by just three points.
My breath when my boyfriend proposed. All memories of our joint bachelor party, which ended in a strange apartment presided over by a drag queen named Miss Ann Thrope and a half-dozen coked-up Chelsea boys.
Passports, credit cards, remotes. After burning some sage, bad juju from breaking a mirror at Miss Ann Thrope’s. (Miss Ann officiated at our wedding.)
My appetite, at the sight of our son’s bloody birth from our surrogate.
My soul, when I accepted a position at a private equity backed tech company, loaded it with debt, and fired half the employees, but got paid handsomely to support my new family.
After taking our son home, the freedom to party like we used to. By the time he hit two, the energy to party like we used to. Often my kingdom, for want of a babysitter.
In the mail, checks. In the dryer, socks. In the mists of time, my Manray Dance Club Campus Party cargo pants. In the shuffle, my son (then six) at Fenway Park for a few terrifying innings.
Myself in thought, when our son (eight) asked: What would you do if you were in heaven?
Myself in a panic, when he asked, Why don’t I have a mother?
After we aged out, invitations to the Pillow Biters’ season-ending party. Our mothers, within weeks of each other.
Our son’s puppy Lugnut, when our son failed to follow through on his commitment to walk Lugnut regularly, and we wanted to make some sort of statement about personal responsibility. Our poise, when our son (twelve) announced he wanted to meet his mother.
During the Great Recession, everything we’d ever worked for, including the lucrative private equity job. During Covid, my sense of taste and smell. For my husband, ten pounds after his fiftieth birthday, for health’s sake.
For the first time ever, a game of one-on-one against my son (sixteen). I wish I could say I let him win.
Trust, when our son first lied to me. My mind, when he stayed out past midnight without texting. My cookies, when I confiscated his Nerf N-Strike, and he in turn lectured me about Second Amendment rights.
Sleep.
Nearly our marriage, when my husband and I began bickering about how best to raise our son (seventeen). My wedding ring, under mysterious circumstances. My powers of speech, when my son featured his gay Dads in his high school valedictorian address (though the elegy was directed mostly at his Papa, my husband).
Most of our illusions. Half our sex drive. Ten percent of the hearing in my left ear. One hundred percent of my ability to read a menu in a dimly lit restaurant without aid from my seeing-eye son.
Sight of the bigger picture, when my son announced on his first college break that he was a closet libertarian. The battle, when I called my son’s bluff. In translation, every word my son muttered. My temper. His respect. Count of the times he defied me.
For my husband, another ten pounds, which seemed strange, since he wasn’t trying.
I tried to get our son to lose his Trumpy girlfriend, after which we didn’t speak for months, and his Papa relayed messages between us.
My ambition. Knowledge of what young people are up to these days. Relevance.
For my husband, another ten pounds, which (along with his family peacemaking) made me start calling him Gandhi.
Our united front, when Gandhi insisted I didn’t have to be so hard on my son. Touch with reality, according to my son. Commonsense, according to my father, after Gandhi and I purchased Kartwheel’s Go-Kart Emporium with what was left of our savings and moved fulltime to Cape Cod in the foolish hope this new adventure would rekindle our marriage.
When Gandhi and I downsized for the move: square footage, age-inappropriate clothing, Lugnut’s water bowl, and Miss Ann Thrope’s sage-burning abalone shell.
Between my son and me, no love was lost.
After Gandhi was diagnosed with metastatic gastric cancer, our new, downsized Cape Cod cottage, which had too many stairs. My son’s faith in me after I didn’t tell him the truth about his Papa, because I wanted him to concentrate on finals. My husband’s dignity when our son changed his diaper. My marbles, when the home health aide left my husband stewing in his own filth, so she could buy Powerball tickets.
My sense of invincibility. My son’s ability to hear a single word I said. My husband’s good looks. My job, so that I could care for him personally. The Go-Kart Emporium to pay uncovered medical bills. My dream that we’d sally hand-in-hand into our dotage. Heart, when my son said he preferred not to discuss politics or anything else besides the weather with me (and even on that we couldn’t agree).
In the days before the end, track of time. Hope. My shit, when I realized my husband was really going to die.
My husband. My son’s Papa. My will to live.
A condolence note from Miss Ann Thrope, whom we hadn’t seen in years.
For my son and me, our grudges, our distance, our walking on eggshells.
His habitual reticence, to ask, What do you think Papa’s doing, now that he’s in Heaven?
Another game of one on one, the first since high school. I let my boy win.
