Mom’s 50th birthday was an elaborate plan. The deck held coolers packed with anything you wanted or needed. In the back of the house lay the barn, a slightly withered red structure, which housed another two minifridges. In between the deck and barn was a popup tent, shrouding a portion of our large dual-dog tattered yard. Platters laid on prop up tables. Golden ‘50s hung on nails and tape. These were the essentials to please her and everyone she knew.
People poured in from 5 to 6pm, faces I’d seen last week, and faces to which I had to readjust. All of them spread across the yard, flowing in and out of the house’s open doors, taking and leaving little things where they wandered: Bags, presents, and unpronounceable wine bottles. Everybody coagulated by place of origin. New Jersey folks stood together in front of the outdoor fireplace, my Rhode Island family reclined on the deck, and our New York friends buzzed around my brother, sister and I, popping into the kitchen to help with dinner preparation every few minutes. Besides the undeniable woman of the night, I sneaked around as a social variable in every conversation.
During what were routine walks around the house, I stepped down the brick stairs of my back porch. I looked over to the group of Jersey people by the fireplace. All of them were sharing anecdotes about my mom. Mrs. Lont from Wyckoff directed her wine glass at me. She was an old family friend, now in her 50s as well, draped in ‘70s attire most days – a devout fan of The Grateful Dead. She asked about my computer-y endeavors she’d heard of seven years ago.
“Oh yeah, so I’ve actually sort of shifted to art and music and all that,” I explained from behind a White Claw.
“You sure? Those computer science guys make loooads … ,” she trailed off with a chuckle, her wrinkled forehead clearly concerned for whatever debt I’d later accumulate. I assured her I enjoyed these things, and attempted to redirect the conversation to her daughter’s softball endeavors, or son’s recent graduating of middle school. Both attempts failed. After a few rounds of my Top 15 Colleges, or lack thereof at the time, I faked an obligation to the kitchen and walked away. Letting out an instinctively exaggerated sigh as I glared at the now noticeably dull coloration of her dress.
I swerved into the house, through the first narrow hallway to the kitchen. All of the counters held up elbows and edible arrangements. Both of my dogs splayed across the floor. After sliding through ten or eleven people, chirping out a quick “My bad,” or “S’cuse me,” I forced my way to the sliding glass door across the room. I saw my dad’s eyes raise from the grill as I pulled on the door, stepping down to the deck. To the right of the door my sister's friends shifted from one leg to the other, observing and commenting on the dogs, music, or work.
Anita, one of my sister's closest friends, initiated a conversation with me.
“Have you worked with metal before?” she stood on her heels, hands in her overalls, eyes wide. She had just graduated from my sister’s college, and was looking forward to an internship in the same town.
“It’s on the bucket list,” I replied, shifting every few moments to let someone in or out of the kitchen. We talked – and then gushed – about visual art, exhibits, and how to go about getting a job doing metalwork. She asked about classes, mediums, and other aspects of my artistic endeavors. Our conversation reached college, this time darting to my friends, then back to hers, back to my mom, then to New York, and on and on. Our conversation held a length beyond most I’d ever had, almost hitting the forty minute mark before we exhausted our talking points. It was effortless.
“This needs to happen again,” she said in a faux-menacing tone, pointing at me with her eyebrows tense.
“It’s gotta. Like it has to happen again,” I repeated back, dramatizing pauses between my words to align with the “bit.”
We both composed our artistic passions, tucking them away, and then dispersed like businessmen, moving through throngs to find another group that would reel our attention in.
I took a step down from the spot of deck that I’d been occupying, and made my way to the backyard. A small patch of garden was reserved for a table covered in cups of almonds, some cheese I would never touch, a nice loaf of ciabatta and four or five bottles of wine. My grandma had pulled up a chair and was conversing with some distant family friends. While browsing the selection, with a pointy smile and leopard print glasses framing her squinted eyelids, my grandmother, Mimi, opened her arms for a hug which I walked forward to receive.
“Isn’t this wonderful? Almost everyone in your mother’s life. Add the west coast Petersons and it’s everyone!”she said to me from my side, releasing the hug and squeezing my left arm. Rhode Island follows her everywhere she goes. She filled me in on the stores that have closed, some that have opened, family friends that I pretend to remember from infancy, and everything in between. After the third college rundown, Mimi sat down and resumed her conversation with my Mom’s childhood friend Michaela, who then turned to me.
“Been getting rambunctious in the city Oll?” she almost yelled at me in a familiar but dynamic tone that pierced through all the commotion.
“I guess!” I replied. It’s always hard to decipher what she means when she raises an eyebrow every other sentence and fires jokes at whoever she’s talking to without you realizing. She laughed it off and turned back to her conversation.
I turned around in my seat to look at the house. The flow of people in the back door and from the deck door continued. Everyone was still talking amongst themselves, and I was watching. Though my decision decided the next few minutes it cost a few months more of thinking time. Unattended, I walked around some more, checking in on each clump of people. All were fine. They asked for nothing more than, at most, conversation.
After 50 years alive and 17-ish years deciding conversations for me, Mom dropped me at a peculiar fork in the road. Agency. I have agency. I can wash away Rhode Island if I need to. I can pick and choose from New Jersey. I can hold onto New York with my life. And I could say, “Fuck it” and move out West. I’m certain everyone will keep talking amongst themselves, and I’m certain I’ll be embraced if I need to return. Never has a decision been harder, but never have I had a stronger desire for my life to change.