T w e n t y S i d e d
Sitting in my freezer is a rack of tragedy ribs.
My mother knew my partner and I liked barbecue. Whenever she got the chance and she knew we were coming, she’d have a slab of Texas-style ribs waiting in the fridge that we’d take home and freeze. Considering ribs were just about the only thing we weren’t equipped to make ourselves, and the expense of the meat, and the time and effort they took to make properly, it was a thoughtful and ambitious gesture–the very kind she excelled at.
Her condition fluctuated beyond the doctors’ ability to predict, never mind ours, but some time ago she went through one of her rare and merciful upswells. For a week or two she was well enough to get up, stretch her legs, and–apparently–cook one more Texas-style rack. We ate them as a family, and when we were finished, and I had to go back home, I took the lion’s share home in a Ziploc. We went through them fast, but a few lingered, and a few times late into the night I thought to myself I really needed to eat the damn things fast. I didn’t want to eat my dead mother’s barbecue.
Two months after I found out she wasn’t going to get better, she passed away. That was a week ago.
Continue reading ⟩⟩ “My Mother”
