#19 The Missing Annoyance
You gotta fill the space with something
I used to get annoyed when my brother, or anyone really, would suggest that I was doing something that reminded me of my mother. If I laughed, or said something snide, or if I poked at a touch screen aggressively to change the channel or adjust the car navigation. I’d often find myself in a huff about the allegation. I wasn’t like my mom! I was collected and calm and my laugh wasn’t hysterical and charmingly hyena-like!
It was so upsetting to me to be compared to my mother because I found her so difficult to deal with. I didn’t find it charming that she grabbed her t-shirt collar and brought it up to cover her mouth when she laughed. Or said, “switching gears” when we were mid-conversation if she wanted to talk about something else, even if the rest of the room was happily on topic. I grumbled. I rolled my eyes.
One time, my brother’s best friend picked me up because we were going to ride together to my brother’s graduation. I said something, I can’t remember what now, and he turned and looked at me and said, “You know, sometimes you are so much like your mom.” I just nodded and agreed, but in my head part of me was like, '“Nuh uh! Am not!”
But now, nearly six years after she’s been gone, I am what remains of her on earth. When I laugh and its pitch mirrors my mother’s, when I aggressively poke at the touch screen trying to skip the song in the car, when I change the subject to something I want to talk about, even when others have more to say on the current topic. When my language is clear and concise, almost biting. When I e-nun-ci-ate my con-so-nents. When I blend logic into tough conversations. When I slip into survival mode even though my current circumstances are more on the thriving part of the scale. When I whisk cake batter together by hand with the same motions she made when she baked.
I am no longer bothered by it. When someone is gone, you appreciate it more. Duh. But when something is gone, you also notice more. You notice more of yourself. You notice how small things remind you of big things. You notice when there is something off. You notice absence. The reason absence makes the heart grow fonder is that fondness, love, appreciation, gratitude—they all need space to exist. And when someone is absent there is a clear space. You can fill it with grief (inevitable, forever), or you can fill it with noticing that you have your mom’s laugh.