I can’t figure out what it means—that there were clouds reflected in a puddle at my feet. That I felt the need to fit both the reflection and the clouds in the sky into my camera’s frame. But I wanted to show you right away. I wanted to ask what you thought about it.
Are you starting to see her like a mom?
I guess you were the first to make me think about it, that time we went to lunch. Do you remember? It was the end of summer, you had just gotten back from Europe, and you said it was easy for you to think of me like a daughter. There was pressure in my chest and I couldn’t feel my hands as I reached for my water. Like a daughter.
Are you starting to see her like a mom, my friend asked me. I’m not sure why. I hadn’t even told her what you said—but she wasn’t the first to ask. Or the last. I don’t remember exactly how I’ve answered this, but I know it always starts the same: No, said maybe a little too quickly, a little too forcefully, maybe a result of that pressure in my chest that’s always present in conversations like this.
Are you starting to see her like a mom?
Staring at this photo, looking at the clouds’ reflection, has made me remember clouds are made of water. It’s starting to look as if the clouds are trying to touch the puddle, trying to return to something they once were, something that’s part of them; and I’ve been thinking of how impossible that is—because of the distance between the sky and earth—and how necessary water is to life.
I read California experienced its driest recorded years in this last drought, the one that started in 2011. I know here in Fresno people worried because of the farms, because so much depends on the farms. But they had hope in 2015, when El Niño, a storm big enough to end the drought, was predicted to arrive.
*
We had a routine after my parents separated. My mom had moved out, but we, my siblings and I, still saw her every Tuesday, Thursday, and on weekends. She would get us in the evenings after work. I was nine at the time. We had a routine. I packed an overnight bag when I got home from school, and she would be there for me, for us, a few hours later. Every Tuesday. Thursday. Weekends. One day, I packed my bag and waited.
She’s just running late, I told myself. I watched television and waited, my eyes constantly going to my bag across the room. She’s just running late.
After a couple hours, I carried my bag to my bedroom. My face was hot. I opened the bag and threw things into my dresser. My eyes teared up. I threw things into the closet. My hands shook. I threw things across the room. Pain gathered in my chest. This became the new routine. Tuesdays. Thursdays. Weekends.
This is what I remember about my mother. Absences. This is what I remember as I continue to look at the reflection in the photo. It’s hard to remember much else.
*
The puddle in this photo is the first one I’ve seen since the drought was declared seven years ago. Despite all the rain El Niño brought, I don’t ever remember there being any puddles on the ground. Not even the next winter, when the rains continued. Not even the day I went to Fresno State’s football game and it rained so much that I left during half time, my clothes dripping water as I got into my car. I didn’t think it would rain that day, even though the sky was completely gray. That was the day we met for the first time. Do you remember?
You signed my books that morning, and I started crying as I told you seeing your success made me believe more in my own writing; you’d taught me that everyone has stories that matter, even girls from Fresno. I was scared when I dried my eyes I’d see you looking at me like I was crazy, but you didn’t. You said you’d help me as much as you could.
That winter, I’ve read, there was record rainfall in some parts of California. That winter produced enough rain so that by spring, Governor Brown said the drought had ended. But the land’s transition wasn’t easy—years of drought dried it to the point that it couldn’t absorb all the rainfall. There were massive floods and mudslides. Thousands of people had to be evacuated.
*
The longer I look at this photo, the more I remember about my mother—her dark curly hair that became blonde and straight. How her scent changed, from cocoa butter to an expensive perfume.
She said, when I was ten, we’d be able to talk to each other better one day, that she and her mom hadn’t always been close either.
She didn’t want me to play soccer when I was a teenager. She wanted me to sing. She wanted me to paint. She wanted me to talk with her about school and boys. She asked me questions, and I don’t remember ever answering.
We stopped talking when I was a senior in high school.
I saw her this summer, after you and I had lunch. It was the first time I’d been around her in a couple years. As I was leaving, she hugged me. My knees locked and my shoulders tensed. I held my breath. I felt her arms wrapped around me and became aware I hadn’t done the same. My arms had become too heavy to move.
*
I wanted to take a photo of the sky the day before I took this one. The clouds seemed extra bright and there was something to them that I’m still not sure how to describe—there was something special about them that day. I wanted to take a photo, but I couldn’t frame it right.
You sent me a photo a couple hours later of the sky, with clouds that were almost identical to the ones I’d seen. You said they made you think of me. I can’t figure out what it means—that those clouds had made me think of you too. And what about the lake in the photo you sent? What does it mean that the clouds are reflected there too? That looking at the reflection you captured doesn’t make me think of water in a sad way?
Are you starting to see her like a mom?
Do you remember when we went over some of my writing last spring? Do you remember what you did as we said goodbye? You hugged me and said you thought we’d been brought together for a reason, by something much bigger. I was scared to ask what you meant. Scared you’d given voice to words I thought. Scared by how easy it was for me to hug you then.
*
The grass around my neighborhood is starting to grow again, and I no longer see people panicking about water. But I read the time between droughts is decreasing and some environmentalists think we may be celebrating too early, that we may experience a drought as soon as next year. It’s hard to believe when there are giant puddles like this one on the ground, when it’s been raining for a week straight, but I don’t think it’s impossible.
Are you starting to see her like a mom?
The longer I look at this photo, the more I think about my mother; the more I think about what happened before you left for Europe—when we were walking together and you stopped, hugged me and said I’m important to you, that you love me; the more I hear my friend’s voice asking if I’m starting to see you like a mom; the more I ask myself the same question.
The longer I look at this photo, the more difficult it becomes for me to send it to you.
