The Ahhness of Things
I chose a table for four, the one next to the window. I knew I didn’t need all that space, but I wanted the light, the view, something to let my mind wander for a bit. I spread out my things and claimed it all for myself. It had been a difficult week — a really difficult week — dad’s terminal cancer diagnosis, mom’s struggle to accommodate and caretake.
Sweet Wheat is a new bakery in town. Loud Parisian music, bistro chairs, bottles of Orangina and Pellegrino lined up in rows; French pastries, desserts, and lunch time treats displayed across the long counter.
Charlotte was working from home that day. We tentatively made plans to meet for lunch somewhere, and since I’d settled here for the morning, I decide to stay for lunch too. I looked into the camera of my phone, sent her a Snapchat of the place. Come join me for lunch Char. No response. I didn’t expect an answer anytime soon, but still I had hope.
I smiled through the window at the little girl sitting outside while her mom adjusted her pigtails. My hand waved back and forth, her hand waved back and forth. She pointed up, I pointed up. I held up two hands, she held up two hands. We smiled again at each other; her mommy smiled too. The little girl pointed to her mommy in the bright yellow maternity dress. My mommy she mouthed to me. Yes! I nodded my head up and down and smiled. From the side patio door, her grandma stepped into view. Three generations passed around plates of oversized croissants and bottles of Orangina. Taking turns feeding the little girl, fussing over her, grandmother and mother each trying to get the best photos of their little girl– the late morning sun hitting the table just right. I couldn’t take my gaze away from this scene. I caught the toddler’s eyes once again as she waved to me with sticky fingers, pieces of flaky French pastry framed her little lips.
I was that mommy once. Not that long ago I was the one bringing my little daughters, a toddler and an infant, to Le Petit Casino — the quaint French bakery that closed years ago -not far from here. The bakery that was tucked into the corner space between Trader Joes and The Rolling Hills Flower Mart. A busy parking lot that seemed to disappear once we’d step foot into the café. I’d order the breakfast croissant sandwich for myself — soft scrambled eggs with Jack cheese, cilantro, and crispy bacon. Sophie would excitedly select one of the tiny jam jars (orange marmalade, boysenberry, or strawberry) and spread the contents onto each half of her plain croissant. I’d show her how to expertly smear the jam across to wipe the knife clean. We’d take turns pulling off small pieces to offer up to Charlotte who sat in the car seat propped up on the chair.
The memory of the moment — sticky fingers, pigtails, an ordinary weekday morning. We’d practice sipping hot cocoa, tell stories about princesses in castles and smile at the old ladies who played cards in the corner table. I didn’t have a camera built into my flip phone or Blackberry, so I don’t have evidence of these times. Just the feeling, the fleeting feeling of those Tuesday mornings.
There is a term in the Japanese culture I’ve recently learned: mono no aware. ‘Mono’ meaning thing or things; ‘aware’ meaning a feeling or sentiment, and the particle ‘no’ indicating something an object possesses. So ‘mono no aware’ can signify “the deep feeling or pathos of things, the powerful emotions that objects can evoke or instill in us.” Is it the objects — the beauty of the Japanese cherry blossoms for instance- or is it the feelings they evoke? The wind causing the petals to flutter, the light reflecting and refracting? The feeling of varying beauty and seeing time pass, that aching awareness of impermanence. We become “aware” — an emphatic word to indicate that sudden and inarticulate feeling — similar to how we use “ah” and “oh’, and “wow”. Perhaps mono no aware can be interpreted as “the ahhhness of things.”
I looked out the window again. I couldn’t resist the little girl pantomiming with me. We pretended to sip from tea cups, I played peek-a-boo with the menu. My heart welled up inside. I pulled up my phone and took photos of this little girl with the lavender dress and matching pigtails dancing around the chairs. I watched as her mom and grandma offered up the remaining croissant and a few more spoons of soup. She smiled and spun and pointed to her mommy as I pointed the phone in her direction. The mommy and grandma smiled back to me.
Did my own mother have moments like this? Did she catch other mothers and daughters sharing ordinary everyday rituals, did she wonder how fast it went, how hard it was, how much love was exchanged?
Mom and I don’t talk about these things. These days, these final days, we talk about doctor visits, medicine, and of growing old. We talk about dad’s hospice care and the menu choices for dinner. On my last visit, we pulled back the curtains and looked out the window. We talked about the antics of the squirrels leaping to near death from their balcony to the redwood tree swaying back and forth during the recent rain storm. Before I left, she asked me to hang the framed picture with the quote by Rilke “And now we welcome the new year, full of things that have never been.” I put it by the front door, full of hope and promise. Does she remember like I do, with an ache in her heart, the times when we were younger? When we used to sit in a crowded cafe and share a meal? Does she know all that she taught me, what I learned from her?
I looked out the window again and the three generations outside were cleaning up. Napkins set on trays and bottles into the recycle container. I texted Charlotte this time (Snapchats are so fleeting) in the hopes of a reply. Come meet me for lunch!!! With three exclamation points surely she’ll respond! I thought to myself.
By the time Charlotte arrived at the café, the little girl, her mommy, and grandmother had left. But I showed Char the photos I took, I told her about the scene, about how much it reminded me of us. We talked about what to order and the weather outside. I smiled and sighed simultaneously. The ahhhness of things. I’ll tell her about love and loss, of being young — full of hope and promise, growing old, and the beautiful ache that is part of life some other time.
