Can't Escape the Grasp

     Escape from rough days has become challenging to grasp a hold of lately.  The leisurely visits, family get-togethers, planned celebrations, and impromptu gatherings that were the norm have been slow to return. So popping in just to say hi was a much-needed break in a ragged routine. Three women with not-a-hair out of place, wearing knee-length skirts, had the same idea as I did and stopped by for a visit to my Momma’s house.  Now my Momma and I don’t fall into their molly mold.  We have been told that we don’t fit since our clothes are too colorful, our hair and her skin are too dark, and my body is too robust with too many curves, some revealing and some not.  We both tend to ignore those rigid descriptions that some like to make.  As for the drop-in visits, we both have doors that are always open to welcome neighbors, guests, and anyone who wants to sit for a bit.  Well, pretty open except for my Momma isn’t going to let them in without masking up.  

     “Yes, Yes, of course,” they chorus as they think, “We will protect her cane-supported aging body.”

      We gather in the circle of custom coaches just meant for these types of visits. The unsuspecting, service-driven, vaccine worshipping one asks, “Aren’t you vaccinated?” The quiet one who almost fits the mold, but not quite nods in agreement.  

       “Yes. Yes, I am. I’m not worried about myself. I am trying to protect my daughter’s son,” Momma says in her thick Spanish accent that can’t be wiped away even after 60 years of living in the States.

      The all-knowing never miss-a-day of churchwoman decides she is going to educate us. She informs us, ” kids can’t get sick with Covid.” She pauses and as an afterthought graces us with, “if they do, it is so ‘mild’ that he will be fine.”

      I am about to jump into this cesspool for the umpteenth time, but I see my Momma straighten her bent back and get that look in the eye that tells me she is going to throw the preverbal shoe.  My almost half a century of experience knows she never misses. I lean into my chair knowing she has got my back this time. My Momma proceeds with the condensed version of how my once healthy son, with not a day of antibiotics in his nine short years, already had covid.”  My Momma, who has increased in stature, knows how to emphasize the “‘mild’ illness turned into MIS-C and caused this active front-flipping, the second-fastest boy in his third-grade class to not be able to walk without someone holding him up.” She is just getting going as she lets them know “he just spent most of a year in therapy and his immune system is shot.”

     These three women, wearing clothes only found in a shopping mall, clearly have never seen my mom throw anything.  Miss know-it-all decides that her ‘educating’ us is not done as she precedes to tell us, “You're wrong, Covid can’t do that!”  Now, how can an upper-middle-class know-it-all woman be so blinded to not know that my once tiny in stature Hispanic mom with two degrees, with one in English, knows this language and another better than her, be so bold to try to educate my Momma?  I slightly duck knowing the nuclear level bombardment coming her way.

      “What?!” Her voice picks up in speed and volume.  “How can you be so uninformed and ignorant?!” Momma blasts out not waiting or pausing for a response. “You think you know more than his doctors and specialists? You can keep your head in the sand and ignore what’s happening to these children, but if you take just one minute to google it, or spend some time reading more about important things instead of scrolling through Pinterest or playing games on your phone you might learn something new.”  Momma is on a roll now picking up even more speed.  “You come into my home, and try to tell me that what is going on with my grandson isn’t happening?! Who do you think you are?” What these three women, with flawless skin that they got from the doctor's office, don’t realize is that my Momma only paused here to take her first breath.