Putting That Behind Us

                                   Putting That Behind Us

I went to have a drink with my mother, as it had been some weeks since we had visited. I knew she’d been off having a torrid affair with someone or another, and I always worry, if only a little, when she world-walks without me. When she texted to say she was back and invited me over, I breathed a sigh that relieved that little bit of tension I wasn’t aware of till it was gone.

Mother didn’t answer my knock, which wasn’t unusual, but the door is bespelled to recognize me so I went in without tripping her wards. Passing through her comfortable living room and the well-equipped kitchen, I pushed open the back door and stepped onto her treacherous deck, the one that occasionally claims the life from someone unwary enough to step off it.

She was sprawled out on her outdoor easy chair, soaking up the autumn sunlight, but leapt up with lithe grace to greet me. Her face was still the mixture between human and puma she had fancied, making her smile its familiar feral threat. After we’d hugged and a chair had been conjured up for me, I gestured to the steep drop-off beyond the deck’s edge, so typical of the Hollywood Hills.

“I estimate it’s about ninety feet to the bottom of the canyon, here,” I said idly. “It is quite dangerous, you know. Not all your friends can fly.” She shook her head, grinning now. She busied herself at the bar with a yarai glass, mixing something that looked like charred lemons, and smelt strongly of rosemary, combining that with an herbaceous gin.

“One hundred and four feet," she countered, "but life has no guardrails, and I’ve never wanted any for the porch. Remember when we used Daedalus’s drawings to build those big wings, and flew ‘round the whole gorge?” I nodded, smiling in the shared memory. It had been quite the project, but a great deal of fun. It had also been foolhardy. If you frequent my mother’s company you learn that fun often goes hand-in-hand with danger.

“Noted. I shall not mention it again, till next time.” I reached out to accept the cold tumbler from her hand. “Did you write a new poem?”

Mother nodded. The reason she takes on these lovers is to remind her what that sort of passion is like, and she often writes a short verse or two in commemoration of the experience. I sipped my drink. It was delicious. Mother stared into nothing and launched into a short recitation.

“In those silent hours between three and five am

When I am awakened by a light, nonexistent snore, it warms me

Because I can pretend it’s you.

Within this dream that I will not recall when I awaken, if                                                                 I were able to turn and look, that it would be you beside me.  

So even as I aspire to return to slumber

I smile at this memory, about to be forever lost.”

I nodded in appreciation. Some modern poetry eludes me, but I had no trouble understanding this one. Mother finished her drink and poured herself more, holding up the carafe in question. I held out my glass. “And these rather maudlin night skies,” I said, “portend something is afoot. I expect we’ll discover something amiss rather soon.”

Mother turned now, to stand beside me and look out at the night.“Good,” she said, taking another sip of her drink. Her bright eyes blinked, sapphires shining in the moonless gloaming. “Passion is glorious, but now… I feel like fighting something.”

One of the reasons Mother writes verses, frequently scribing them in a large diary, is because very often her partners do not survive their tryst. For a fact, I do not know for a certainty who my father is (although I have my suspicions), and I am not sure that he still lives.

“There were rumors of a humanoid thing with misshapen orange patches for eyes, causing trouble down at the Great Market. He may be the danger writ in these skies.”

“Not anymore,” she said softly, and there was a disturbing satisfaction on her face that would have bothered anyone that saw it. Not for the first time, I felt grateful that she loved me as any mother loves her child.