I Am Not a Lesbian (for now) :: Personal Narrative Writing

My mother is not a lesbian. Her fraternal twin, Marty, was a lesbian. Marty died of lung cancer when I was seven; she and my mother were thirty-four. My mother’s twin is a martyr in my family, the perfect child, the perfect person. She loved people; she was smart, athletic, active in the fight for women's rights. She taught me how to jump rope on Sanibel Island in Florida. It was windy, but that's all I remember. We went to Philadelphia for the memorial service. Suede, one of Marty's former lovers, played "From a Distance" on her synthesizer. Marty's body was cremated, but we never saw the ashes scattered because a huge snowstorm covered Pennsylvania the day after the service. We ate dinner in Marty's old house, which she shared with Bonnie, her lover at the time. My mother says my father cooked chicken, and Suede played the piano and guitar for us. She played "House at Pooh Corner" and "Peanut Butter and Jelly" for me and my little sister. The August after Marty died, I taught myself how to play "Happy Birthday" on the piano, for my mother. Mom's birthday always created of a huge amount of stress for every member of my family. My father, my younger sister, Cricket, and I, we labored. To make it perfect. On our birthdays, my mother pined and agonized to ensure that every detail went correctly, so the birthday person would be happy. The reservations at the restaurant, the number of party favors, the order of giving presents and playing games, all must be in line. And when something did not go as planned, she would be devastated; we would spend the whole day assuring her that the birthday had gone well, that it had not been ruined by a burnt cake. So when August eleventh rolled around, it was imperative that not a single thing upset her, that we not ruin her birthday. Cricket led Mom by the hand into the living room as I began to play. I only got to the part where it goes high with "happy birthday dear Jody" before I messed up. Pressed the wrong key; the interval was off. I burst into tears. Sobbing on the piano bench, bent over the tainted keys, I realized my mother had also begun to cry, with Cricket in her lap. The only other time I'd ever seen my mother shed a single tear was months before, at Marty's memorial service.