Today my car is finally done after months of false hopes and unprecedented anticipation. Around noon I meet mom at a local restaurant to grab lunch and exchange cars. I comment on her recent barrage of messages on facebook. “Oh ya,” she says shoveling her mouth full of steamed beets, “I’m getting braver.” It seems she can only digest small amounts of technology at a time.
“Well I see you learned how to write on my wall and comment on my status,” I say. “Ya! Did you see what I wrote about your speakers? That was so cute what that Curtis Montgomery said, calling me Mrs. Norlen and everything.”
“Ya, do you agree with them about my music? That you don’t like it?” I question.
She pauses to savor her salmon before setting down her fork. “I like that 2pac!” she says. I give her an odd look, “what?”
“Ya I listened to that link on your wall! He’s very good looking. He really is,” she pauses, nodding, “I didn’t think he needed to smoke, but he sings well…there’s no doubt about that.”
I laugh. She leans in across our tiny two-top and whispers, “Don’t write this down, but,” she says, her voice barely audible, “Is he dead?”
“Yes.” I confirm laughing. She instantly straightens herself and returns to her normal posture, “That’s what I thought,” she says sadly. She shakes her head as though she is speaking fondly of an old friend, “it’s too bad…I don’t like the swearing, but I liked 2pac.”
