Le Stade Du Miroir

I finally cried tonight.

It came unexpectedly, in part because I have never cried before and in part because I was lying calmly in bed at the time. I was just drifting off to sleep when I realized the muscles in my throat hurt. My eyebrows furrowed, and my body felt intensely flat, as if I were merging with the bedsheets. I turned on my side, pulled my legs into my body. It was 1:06 a.m.. I hugged my arms together. I ran my hands up and down my arms slowly, and I was sobbing.

My face tightened and my mouth fell open soundlessly. I couldn't feel tears actually emerging from my eyes, but my face was entirely wet. I did not understand why my throat could utter no sound. My entire body was tense. It was like vomiting without the nausea. Suddenly, I took a sharp inhale through the mouth and made a loud croak that cut through the heavy silence in my darkened bedroom.

At that point, it was unstoppable.

What upsets me most about the whole ordeal is that it was entirely unwarranted. Quite to the contrary, things have been quite positive and pleasant of late.

Over a month ago, my mother took me for one of her infamous afternoon teas in the garden. These teas are known both for their unending potato salad sandwiches and their unyielding conversations. But at this particular tea, my mother informed me that I would no longer be seeing the therapist she had been sending me to. In fact, to my great surprise, my mother informed me that she would no longer be sending me to any therapists. She had enough of therapists, at least so far as they relate to me. I asked her if this meant I was cured of whatever malady it was that sent me to a therapist to start.

My mother told me she had made her peace with me. That afternoon, a little over a month ago, my mother told me she had finally decided to meet me at my terms. She would no longer send me to a therapist or schedule me for luncheons without first asking for my preferences.

It has been nothing short of a magical time since that afternoon. I will admit I was skeptical at the start. The very next day, being a Wednesday and my mother's cribbage night, I resisted the urge to delve into a fresh copy of On Death and Dying, anticipating my mother's customary intrusion at quarter to five in preparation to greet her guests. As guests began to arrive and no knock came a gently rapping at my door, I thought I might that moment shed my first tears of relief and hope. So long had I wished to be rid of those evenings at cards. I have never had a penchant for strategy and certainly not one for cards.

These past several weeks have been a more productive time for me than I have had in years. I once again take my weekly trips into the city to people-watch at the library. I have begun to read at an astronomical rate. I am experiencing a freedom of movement in and about my house that I have not felt in years.

My days are now up to my own devices. In the mornings, I come downstairs and willingly make inquiries of my mother about her upcoming day, freed by the certainty that I will not be apart of it. And, I must admit, I believe my mother is pleased with our new arrangement. She seems to have continued forward with much the same activities as she did before, but there is now the blissful absence of arguments between us.

The other day, I came into the kitchen just before lunchtime. All morning, the cook had been working on a roast for a lunch of sandwiches and soup. But I must confess the waft of the roast had seduced me by mid-morning. No matter where I escaped to, the breeze brought word of garlic and fatty juices. It was intoxicating.

When I made my way into the kitchen, I was startled to find my mother already peering into the oven. I cannot ever recall seeing my mother doing anything in the kitchen, let alone investigating a kitchen appliance. But that morning it was clear that my mother and I were of similar minds regarding that roast. It occurs to me now, that moment might have been the first of its kind for my mother and I.

I could see immediately that my mother was as startled as I was to meet in the kitchen. She had been near enough to the oven window to create breath fog, shielding her view from the light with her hands to better inspect the roast. My mother shot upright when I came into the kitchen, quickly applying her hands to her perfectly kept hair.

My nostrils flared at her poor subterfuge, and we locked eyes. For an instant, we stood at opposite ends of the kitchen, a good ten feet apart, eyeing one another.

Then, my mother laughed.

I have heard my mother laugh a thousand times at dinner parties, functions, afternoon teas. Yet after seeing her laugh that day in the kitchen, I know now that she had not really laughed in years either.

That this unprecedented bout of tears should strike me now, in the midst of this glorious time in my life, is unjust. I am certain that I am happy now. For the first time in years, I look forward to each day. I lie in bed each night and imagine the next day, preliving it in my mind. Perhaps I will create a garden cemetery around my mother's failed cabbages and carrots. Perhaps I will go into the city and find the homeless man who circles the block, day in and day out, under the delusion that he is driving; the man is fascinating, obeying the traffic signals at every corner. Perhaps I will place my own obituary announcement in the newspaper again.

I am shaken to my core about having cried so. A part of me misses my regular appointments with the therapist my mother sent me to, though only because I am fairly certain that this is precisely the sort of thing he would have wanted me to report to him. The root of these tears is elusive, particularly in light of my new found enjoyment.

For the first time in my life, I find myself worried about my life.

What does Me know that I do not?