Another week and I'm living my life somewhere in between worlds, just like mother. Yesterday's dinner and the old friends we met reminded me of how she's not always been this way. Her past was so much simpler and more modest, the people she knew less polished and posh, and I still wonder what happened to change all that.
We knocked on the door of the Greenwich Village apartment at exactly 7 PM, a barefooted man with circular sunglasses and long tangles of wispy hair in his face opened, gave mother a warm hug and shook my hand the way you do with a child. The place was scarcely furnished and smelled subtly of marijuana, I'm used to it from back home and expected nothing less.
Mother slided into the living room, lit a candle placed in a vintage wine bottle and sat back in the couch only to jump up again at the sound of the doorbell. "Oh my God, Frank!" she yelled and threw her arms around a tall man in a worn jean jacket. They hugged for what felt like an eternity before she introduced me, still short of breath from rambling terms of endearment in falsetto.
After hours of political discussions I went home alone, mother stayed behind in the pot haze and came back earlier this morning, seemingly happy. "He's just a friend" she mumbled, "one I haven't seen in many years". I hadn't asked but immediately came to think of Carl. I don't know what he is to me now, but I can't go much longer without talking to him.