I sit alone, over-chewing a vegan croissant. The bland sterility of the rubbery pastry underwhelms my taste buds, making simple mastication a challenging task. I feel like I deserve applause for my effort. But no ovation is given. The café’s other attendees sit enthusiastically enjoying their soy sausage and oat milk lattes, each other. It’d be nice to conversate with others. At a minimum, it’d be nice to eat an authentic French croissant. I crave the buttery flakiness of a well-made pastry. I crave company. But I don’t feel like talking to anyone. 

I don’t know why I am here. I feel lost. I’m not sure who I am these days. I’m not a vegan. Of this, I am sure. But here I am, sitting awkwardly in a vegan café, angry—at what, I don’t know. Writing always seems to set me straight, reveals what lies beneath. 

So, I take an ink stick out of my fanny pack, start scribbling on napkins. All that comes out of me is this silly little poem:

I miss my mom. Her organs failed three years ago. The doctors said it was due to metabolic disease. I know better. I know the human body wasn’t designed to withstand seventeen years of opiate-based pharmaceuticals. But that never stopped the prescriptions from coming. Never stopped her from ingesting that shit.

Now she’s gone. Without her, I am not sure who I am. When she was here, I had something to push against. She gave me a reason to be different, to put my running shoes on, to eat my veggies, to stand up straight. I wanted to be everything she wasn’t. I forced myself to be her antithesis. I believed that if I could be the opposite of what she was, I could be somebody. I could have success. I could make her proud.

I made her the villain in my imaginary superhero flick—the one where I play the annoying good guy, the pretentious prick with all the correct answers. The hero stands for something. He’s righteous. He’s admired. He’s loved by all. But he’s nothing without the villain—for this, I have no answer. Without Mama, I don’t know how to be.

Truthfully, Mama wasn’t a maniacal rapscallion. She was overworked. And underpaid. And undertreated and overmedicated. And she was sad. And alone. And I was 2,600 miles away in California, seeking.

I sit here alone, chewing this disgusting pastry, thinking about Mama’s biscuits—that’s what I really want. I want to buy a plane ticket. I want to take the next redeye to South Carolina. I wanna sit down in Mama’s stinky, cigarette-smelling kitchen and watch her make biscuits while she sips on her Coca-Cola. I want her Este Lauder Beautiful to annoy my sinuses. I wanna see my Mama. And I can’t.

From the opposite side of the table, Mama’s memory smiles. She knows she outwitted the wannabe superhero, again. Mama always knew how to handle cocky men. Her memory leans in across the table, whispers, “You were always too big for britches, son.” And with a handful of words, I am reminded that even if I am unsure who I am, Mama always knew.