it is my mom's birthday

CILANTRO, AND A BRIDGE —

as any writer knows, the moment you publish a piece can be the scariest part of the entire process — even more chilling than writing that first sentence in the first place. publishing means you are officially opening yourself up to critique. you never know if your story resonated beyond belief, or ripped three precious minutes from someone’s life with useless words. it’s part of the job, but that doesn’t mean i have to be good at it!

when these newsletters were a more regular part of my life, the same anxiety was a part of the deal. so you can assume how i felt when, within minutes of publishing, i would get a frantic text or call from with one particularly emotive reader: my mom.

like clockwork, she’d text me that a certain line made her bawl; or that the way i described this moment gave her chills. she was surprised that i cursed in text, given that my editor subscribes to this thing. and on mother’s day, she was more overwhelmed with the words i wrote about us at the neighborhood mall than the cast iron i splurged on.

every time i hit publish, her resonance with my words would be the first and only reaction that mattered - haters be damned. it’s one snapshot into the kind of mom my mom is: she’ll see and hear you so naturally, at the most important times. it can as simple as a text or as grand as hopping into a car at midnight and driving four hours to boston just to be a no-questions-asked shoulder. it’s a type of attention that her kids and direct family enjoy, but also something she’ll give to an acquaintance who complimented her butter chicken, literally once.

now, obviously i haven’t written on here much over the past year, but that’s also partially because my most loyal reader became my roommate. yep, i lived with my mom and dad for a year during the pandemic (which demands a whole separate blog post to fully unpack). the emotional texts and frantic calls were replaced with walks and grocery store trips. i realized her showing up for me in a moment of mundane stagnancy mattered just as much as her showing up for me in a moment of anxiety. it gave me a perspective on how non-complicated love can really be - and i love her for that.

today is my mom’s birthday. she’s the best. and words don’t even begin to do her justice.

n

p.s. this doesn’t fit anywhere but feels key characterization i’d like you to know about her: she can make the most intricate indian meals, but can’t make a cheeseboard to save her life. like, what’s up with that?