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My Real Memoir
Mom grew weary of wandering alone in the big Coyote Hills house. A year-and-a-half had passed since my father died, and a year since I’d moved out to be near my school of the arts. Thanks to its country club location, Mom’s house was now worth ten times what she and Dad had paid for it. She needed the money, and was lonely. True, she’d started dating. Ted was madly in love with her. He’d acquired a string of “romantic” motels in Colorado—with red velvet drapes and mirrors over the beds—and wanted her to move there with him. But she was “only pretending to be alive,” she told me. So, she moved in with her sister, my aunt Tavia.
Everyone but me, it seemed, was moving on. A year after founding my little shoestring academy, I was still trying to goose it to life. Enrollments had increased following our Wynter Faire recitals, but by spring we were shedding goose feathers again.
And then my two favorite dancers quit.
After her divorce, our jazz teacher Janet had decided to legally resume her maiden name. But while standing in line at the Superior Court, she’d seen a French travel poster. And by the time she reached the registrar, she’d chosen a completely new set of exotic first, last, and middle names. And then she decided to change everything else about her life. We’d been friends, then lovers, then friends again. She was a wandering soul, I knew, because I was one myself. Plus, we’d both reached the age where, science says, the prefrontal cortex finishes organizing (or in some cases disorganizing) itself, and declares, “This is who you really are.” Meanwhile…
After her marriage, my ballet teacher Ellen had decided to pursue a masters degree (grad degrees love a good chase). She would go on to become a well-regarded choreographer. I loved and missed them both (though missing Ellen was less complicated than missing Janet). The new dance teachers were good, but this wasn’t their home the way it had been Janet and Ellen’s.
There were hellos too. Mark, our new keyboard instructor, was a humble Christian college professor. Ira, a tall, handsome black man, was our new flute and saxophone mentor. He had an equally gorgeous wife, so I was surprised to learn he was also a local nightclub star with a fanatic female following. He could have had a different woman every night, if he wanted. But he didn’t. Would I be as faithful to my fiancée Kat if equally enticed?
When Mom moved, I offered to take Ginchy. Of all the cat’s I’d grown up with, he alone had come of age with me. He was my older, wiser brother (in cat years). And so I brought him to live at our school. I had to lock him out of the studio during dance classes; he kept trying to rub the ballerina’s legs while they were en pointe. But after class, he was the focus of everyone’s affections.
Then one day the back door was left open, and Ginchy disappeared. I never saw him again. I like to think my cat-brother is adventuring in some vast eternal field, and that one day we’ll be reunited. But this time it’ll be me who comes home.
Ginchy, Janet, and Ellen weren’t the only ones who moved on that spring. A far more painful goodbye…
Was coming.
My Real Memoir is a series. To read the next one, click here.
More on the cat down the road? Great characters, what was the Master’s pursuit? So much more filler. Been following you for a few years Mitch, Happy New Year.
Thank you, my Anonymous friend, and Happy New Year to you.
This text poignantly reflects the loneliness and transition faced by the characters after loss and change. The story of the mother and her loved ones evokes nostalgia and a desire for happiness. The connection with Ginchy, the cat, adds a tender touch about the search for companionship and the hope of reunion. It is a beautiful reminder that although life changes, the bonds and memories remain in our hearts.
Thank you so much, Poetas (afraid I don’t know your name).
My name is Ivonne. Good night.🌷
Good night, Ivonne.
🌷👋🏼
This is a real spellbinder! 🙂
I’m so glad you think so, Nancy!
I always wish there was more text when I reach the end of these memoir segments. I agree with Nancy(!) above: you’ve got a real page-turner in the works, Mitch!
Aw, thank you, Nancy!
You may want to say no to goodbye but in the end, we are forced to say so
True, AE (sorry, I don’t know your name).
Its Zuhaib
Thanks, Zuhaib.
Goodbyes are sad. Many times, life changes are sad, too. … You sure know how to build up to a cliffhanger!
Very true, Maddie, and thank you.
Just when we think life has jelled, then it becomes tapioca pudding. Poor Cat, but then cats do this kind of thing, take up with whoever has the best food and housing. How did men and women ever bump into each other? It’s a strange process, and not entirely functional.
Ginchy was over 18-years-old, had moved with us four times, and knew we were his family, so I doubt he’d change homes, good food notwithstanding. I suspect he passed away somewhere, and can only hope it was peaceful.
Love your real memoirs, Mitch. 👌🏼
Aw, thank you, Iman.
This is absolutely enthralling!
I’m so glad you think so, Robin!
Very honest and intereting. Great story.
Thanks, Pete.
An enticing story, It reminded me of something Anthony Hopkins had said recently “life is one long goodbye” it’s sad yet it was a beautiful perspective
It tells us that we should appreciate our loved ones
Thank you for sharing
My privilege, Ahmed.
If you don’t mind me asking, do you plan to publish your memoir one day?
I do indeed, Sarah. I’ll need to connect some dots and add transitions, of course, but this series of blog posts is my first draft.
That’s exciting, I love following along with these!
I’m so pleased to hear that, Sarah.
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