Like a blindfolded child at a piñata party (157 Cong. Rec. H817)

A while back, we had a party. The public purpose of said fete was the fact that we needed to share the homebrews we made at the end of last year, lest we become alcoholics. Privately, it was a way to assuage our guilt for not hosting a fiesta sooner, considering that we are one of the few single couples with a house and that I had requested a larger table under the guise that I needed it for social events. 

But as it turned out, there were many other occasions that it could have commemorated. We could have celebrated the fact that I had just started my new job at the consulate. We could have shown a good time to some friends from A-100 training who were in town as part of a consulate exchange (but, sadly, they got lost on the way to our house, and since I didn't have my cell on me, they couldn't get through to get directions; sorry, D and K!). We actually did mark the birthday of one of the attendees, whose husband brought a piñata as a surprise for her. After breaking two sticks, we finally beheaded the Little Mermaid to get at her delicious innards.

Later, I would come to find out that we also could have mourned the death of my mom. Had I known it was the seventh anniversary of her passing, I probably wouldn't have selected that date for the party. And how could I not have known, you might ask? In fact, I have to look up the obituaries for her and my brother every year, so I remember the dates of their deaths (although never again, as I have now added them to my Google calendar). 

I do tend to have a vague sense of dread as Easter and Thanksgiving approach, as I vividly remember their deaths' effect on these holidays. I clearly recall taking the phone call about my mom as I was on my way to drop off a friend at the airport for spring break; right after I deposited him curbside, I raced to my apartment, packed a few things, and drove through darkness (in a startlingly short amount of time) from Virginia to Ohio. The phone call for my brother came right ahead of finals before winter break my sophomore year in college; not only did I actually take all my exams, but that very night I headed to a kegger.

But since the exact dates of spring and winter breaks move every year, I am often totally unaware of the anniversaries of their deaths until they pass. I only discovered the coincidence about the party when I thought I should probably check in with my dad on the day of my mom's death. By then, my condolences would've been quite belated. A couple weeks earlier, I had told him I was having a party that day; I certainly hope he didn't think it was to revel in her death.

When I discovered my lapse, I immediately blamed a raging headache from our party on karma from my lack of respect for my mom and lack of sympathy for my dad. The night started out great with some unique-tasting mead, an expertly-gassed English pale ale, and my favorite pumpkin ale of all time (even if one bottle lacked bubbles because it didn't ferment enough). It got even better with the help of some homemade tortas, including three meats perfectly seasoned and grilled and four salsas aptly created and blended by TJ (seriously, he could open a store, based on the guards' rave reviews).

The cranial pulsing and pounding began about the time I started watching videos of a baby dancing like Shakira and Bill Cosby doing his Noah routine. By the middle of the piñata-candy poker game, I could barely follow the betting and raising of bubble gum and lollipops. So I had to call it a night even though there were still guests gathered around our (much bigger) table. Surely this social shame was punishment for not even thinking about my mom that night, right?

But the truth is, I channeled her spirit all that day, as I do every day. Without her, I wouldn't even be here, and I don't mean living in this world, I mean in Tijuana. She gave me a love to travel adventurously that makes giving directions to "turn at the second Oxxo" seem like a perfectly normal statement. This is a woman who cycled across Ohio, Florida and New York well into middle age. She also gave me a need to cultivate camaraderie that makes piñata-candy poker seem like a perfectly acceptable Saturday night. This is a woman who attended a going-away party for myself while she herself was undergoing chemo. 

And to think I could barely soldier through a migraine. But I made it through most of that night, as I make it through most of my days, with her implicit inspiration pushing me forward. Now that I have the date duly recorded, I think I'll party on every anniversary of her death. I just wish she could've been at this particular fiesta. She would've loved that piñata.