Reuniting With Mom

Red Armani scarf; Bvlgari sunglasses; and a black Gucci dress. That’s what she said she would be wearing. Of course, I had no idea what any of that was supposed to look like. Lucky for me, I didn’t have to. I knew her the moment we noticed one another. Her eyes, barely visible behind those oak-colored sunglasses, indicated immediately that I was in her sights. And her red smile gave it all away. She was Rochelle Whyte; my mother. I dropped the canvas bag from my shoulder and took the outdoor stool opposite her. The sun had heated up the metal sseat before I had arrived, and it burned the backs of my legs. What burned harder was having no idea what I was supposed to say. Thankfully, she made the first move. “I’ve ordered a latte for you.” “Thanks.” “You’re welcome, Marcus.” Oh God, awkward turtle was beached on awkward shore. When the drink came, I was only too happy to fill my mouth with its thick, bitter froth, lest I had to actually speak. Rochelle took a noisy sip of hers. I could make out the ghosts