Chrysocolla

"Chrysocolla, a turquoise-blue crystal is first and foremost a stone of communication.  It's very essence is devoted to expression, empowerment and teaching. The serenity colors discharge negative energies, calms and allows truth and inner wisdom  to surface and be heard. A peaceful stone. A stone that encourages compassion and strengthens character by emphasizing the power our words and actions have on those around us," my son had read the description of the new stone he had around his neck. It was beautiful and earthy.

It may have been a powerful stone but it's funny how I didn't notice it until I was gathering my belongings together before I was about to get out of his car.  I almost didn't see it at all because of his black t-shirt.  What I did notice though was his comfort level when reading outloud. It felt as if it was the first time he read outloud to me since the homework days but that wouldn't be true. He read my grandmother's eulogy at her funeral.  Sometimes I can't even stomach that I say that. 3 years passed and not much had changed. But, the day your grandmother dies is the day unconditional love dies.  In the end it became something bittersweet to me because oh, how proud that i was when my boy, grandma's first great grandchild, volunteered the evening before to read her eulogy. It wasn't until then that he and I had heard nobody in the family wanted to "do it". They were going to have her hospice nurse deliver it. And there was no way on earth they were going to allow me to read it.  I had a strong debate on why I would,  idealistic points that I could, that I was her first grandchild who should and that I didn't get a Communications degree for just no good. My words meant nothing to them. My words would never mean anything to them again. But I was almost used to feeling shamed by them. So the next best choice was my son, for the exact same points I had. Would and Could being the ones that sold the cheap bunch with such short notice.

He read her eulogy as if he were older than 18, as if he had known her her entire life and as if he was a professional toastmaster. He made them laugh. He made them cry. He made me even more shameful for being his mother. This poor boy announced as soon as he hit the podium who he was to all the patrons attending her wake (my family was Mexican American and my son was half black, often leaving people in a split second of confusion.  That is until they heard him speak. He spoke  just like me, educated and confident with a pinch of self doubt.  After he introduced himself he proudly announced,  "My mother was Madelyn ' s first grand baby." and pointed directly at me. We caught eyes like we always had. The strength and intensity of his focus filled me as it always had. Usually eye contact is underrated, but not with the two of us. It spoke louder than our exciting recaps. But this time the feeling was sick.  I had never felt so sorry for a boy in my life. I never knew how much I hurt him until that moment. We'd been through it all. the tattle tell teachers, scrapes from bullies pushing, the explanations for his asshole dad belittling him and still I had never wanted to kill someone,  to kick somebody's ass and beat the shit out of someone, as much as I wanted to... to myself. 

I regained my composure and let go of that confusing memory. I went back and focused in on what he was reading. Then, as I often did drifted off into another daydream and while he was finishing up the description of his stone I had the narcissistic hope that he would untie it from his neck and put it around mine.  That's what happens in the movies right? Naturally,  he didn’t. Instead he tucked it back under his shirt, he hid it again. Not necessarily because he thought that I'd steal it. It was more like he hope I'd forget about it. He hoped I'd forget about hope. No false hope.  No communication dreams. No peace of mind prayers. At least not in my future.