Whenever I shop at vintage stores or flea markets I always gravitate to the photographs, to that whole era of movie stills, postcards, and personal photos where the women pictured look like my mother. Of course, they never are.
Yesterday, a man handed me a postcard of a wall collage and I thought he was fucking with me because on that wall was a picture of my mother. The man had a tattoo on his arm that read May 17, 1987, and I wanted to say, “Oh, dude, I hope that’s not a sobriety date,” but I didn’t. I don’t think you should ever tattoo your sobriety date or the date of your wedding on your arm. It’s just asking for trouble. Even if you’re not in Amsterdam.
I have a kanji tattoo that I got a long time ago on the Venice boardwalk: Japanese characters that I thought said “imagination,” but actually say “empty mind.” It took me a while to come to terms with that.
When I looked on the back of the collage postcard, I realized the picture I thought was my mom was Norma Shearer on Anne Frank’s bedroom wall. What? My mother has been dead for ten years and her ashes are still in the trunk of my car.
May 17, 1987 was the day the USS Stark was attacked by an Iraqi jetfighter, the only successful anti-ship missile attack on a US ship in recorded history. 37 American sailors died that day, almost 25 years ago.
I miss my mom. I didn’t know I was even allowed to say that.