I am leaving for a trip tomorrow, and my first stop is in Seattle to see my mother. Last night, as I was packing, I remembered something that happened when I lived with her for a short time in undergrad.
It's early spring, March-ish, we've just gone shopping and I am supposed to drop her off at an appointment. She abhors lateness. It is unseasonably warm for a Michigan March, and when we pass the high school, we see all the kids without their coats, even though it's still probably not more than 50 degrees out.
Then we pull up to a stop light and a carful of kids pulls up next to us. They have their windows down and the boy in the passenger seat has his bare feet hanging out the window.
Mom: What is wrong with those kids?
Me: They're celebrating the sun.
Mom: Well it's freezing.
I take the next turn, in the opposite direction of her appointment.
Mom: What are you doing?
Me: I am not taking you to your appointment until your feet are bare and hanging out that window.
Mom: Are you crazy?
Me: You raised me—do you have to ask?
Mom: This is no time to joke.
I look at her, dead serious, with the face she knows too well, and hit the power botton to lower her window.
Yelling, screaching, and lots of utterances of my entire given name ensue.
And then her bare feet go awkwardly out the window—accessorized, mind you, with a look of death.
And then she smiles. And then we laugh.
Me: Remember that feeling?
Mom: Vaguely—thank you.
Me: Anytime. Now get your bloody feet inside the window because I'm freezing.
And now she lives in Seattle. Because, for her entire life, she wanted to live in Seattle. So she got up one day, shortly after fridged foot incident, quit her job, sold her home, and moved to Seattle.
And I miss her. And I think it might be all my fault.
Bloody window.
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