As I sit here, listening to the new Freddie Gibbs album, getting stoned and staring at the ceiling, I can’t help but think about how much I genuinely dislike Summer. I have written about it before, but the short and the tall of it is that when I was a kid, both of my parents died two months apart, book-ending the most difficult Summer of my life.

As I grow older, I still visit my parents’ resting place once during the season, and every year I find a little more peace. Still, it’s tough.

Also, as I get older, I have discovered that I hate these hot and humid New England Summers. They are sticky, and they make me dream of moving into a vast pine forest in Northern Maine. At least it is great weather for growing weed.

July 25^th also happens to be my mom’s birthday. Christmas in July.

My mom was a mysterious lady, and I have so many questions that I will never get answers to. She kept a lot of secrets, from her origins to her terminal diagnosis, she played everything close to the vest.

My grandfather died when my mom was eight. After that, things get really hazy. I know my mom was in the system for a bit, was raised by my aunt Lil for some time, and that she eventually befriended a woman named Cindy, whose family became closer to us than my real family on either side, excluding my grandma on my dad’s side. Grandma Cassidy was the shit.

My mom lived everywhere from Tampa to Providence, and at one point, she and my older brother even lived in a car. Those two cities and the car story came out of other people’s mouths. My mom didn’t share with me like that.

Once my mom married my dad, and I appeared, her timeline is much easier to follow. She worked at what is now the Osborn Correctional Institution, in Somers, Connecticut, and she was the first member of the family to exceed a high-school diploma, getting an associate’s degree in criminal justice.

She would eventually hurt her back while at the prison and be forced to retire. My mom also got hooked up with fentanyl patches 30 years before the substance took off, as well as a bunch of other narcotics. She became a pharmacy for old, gout-ridden bikers across New England. This isn’t a complaint. She was in crippling pain and needed the meds, and watching my Uncle Franny make his pitch was always a good time.

“Oh, Sandy! My feet, my hip, uuuhhh.”

The injury was legit. She had braces, went to physical therapy, and had back surgery. I used to walk across my mom’s back while she lay on the floor, feeling every little crack with my feet.

Even with the back problems, my mom worked under the table as a bartender as well as a package store clerk. She even opened a little kitchen in a rented space inside of a bar, which went ok. She was all about the hustle. I remember riding my bike around at the end of our driveway, just waiting for her to come home from work. She would light up with that beautiful smile, and I would follow her down the tenth of a mile dirt road to our house excitedly.

My mother was not perfect, of course. She loved drinking, fighting, and occasionally whipping my ass unprompted. Despite the occasional shellacking, my mom was also extremely protective of me. My cousin has a story about my mom insisting that I was correct about something, even though he was right and she probably knew it. While I don’t remember this very specific instance he still brings up, I believe him. My mom was weird about shielding me from anything and everything. This all went down the drain in my teens, where there were constant threats of being tossed out on my ass or put on CHINS. My parents had cancer, and dealing with me was too much for them. That kind of insecurity fucked with me after being put in a bubble for so long.

There are reasons why she was all over the place, and I know they are locked away in her past, forever.

My mom had 3 sisters. There is something like a 20-year age gap between my aunt Lil and my mom, with my other two aunts falling in the middle. I haven’t heard from any of them in years. My aunt Sue used to send me an annual Christmas ornament. I still have the one from the year I was born, and Aunt Sue’s ornaments still adorn my tree every year. One year, they just stopped.

I know my older brother hits her up on social media for money, so they have a relationship. Me, though, I haven’t heard from her in 20 years. My brother gushed about talking to her on the phone, saying, “It’s just like talking to mom!”

I bet it is, dude… I bet it is.

My Aunt Lil used to send me an annual Christmas card, but those also stopped. I don’t exactly reach out, so maybe it’s on me, but I started getting iced out only a couple of years after my parents died. Frankly, that hurts, and I am sick of chasing relationships with a family that doesn’t want me.

When you lose your parents, all these people love to pull you aside and be like, “If you ever need anything, or even just want to talk, I’m here.” Most of them mean well enough, but in the end, it is usually just words.

This is starting to read like a piece designed simply to air grievances, but that is not my intention. I just want to express what goes through somebody’s mind, and sometimes, those thoughts are not perfect.

It seems that my mom will always be an enigma, and that frustrates me to no end.

When it comes to family, I mentioned that my mom was brought into a family that we were much closer to than our own. These people are wonderful, for the most part, although I never talk to them either. My aunt Dena was like a sister to my mom and took me in when nobody else would. My cousin that I frequently write about was her son, born only two weeks after me. We shared a lot of birthdays.

My aunt Paula is the sweetest person in that family, for sure. She was the only other person besides Dena who ever inquired about my plans and ideas. Sometimes, you can feel that somebody’s interest in you comes from a genuine place, and that’s Paula. Warmth just radiates off of her, and she is so adorable. I’ve always felt uncomfortable around her and her family, however, simply due to them being very successful. I’m not used to being around rich folks, and I’m just awkward. Where does my fork go? Which furniture is for sitting? It’s a lot.

I think I’m going to look up my Aunt Paula after writing this. While she might not know my mom’s secrets, she shares my mother’s genuine love for me, which is rare in my family. I bet she would like to hear from me.

She did send me some Tony Robbins books, but nobody’s perfect.

Until next time, stay crescent fresh,

J.T.C.