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When my mother cries in public, I make the most absurd jokes.
“She’s crying because your prices are too high,” I told a Cape Town merchant once.
“You made her cry already?” I questioned the owner of a one-hour photo.
We were traveling with a couple when I made that remark in South Africa, and the wife scolded me with a sharp look, then let the man know it had nothing to do with him. My voice drowned in her apologies as I attempted to rescind: I’m joking — she’s grieving the death of my brother, her son, oh, I guess still my brother, but more her son than my brother. She’s the mother, you see; he was my brother.
I had more time with the owner of the one-hour photo. He laughed nervously with me, and the conversation continued. He was a father of two boys — what pain, what pain.
When my mother and I got back to the Toyota Highlander, I silently questioned this new personality trait. My humor has always been fringe, but this impulsive urge to sicken moments when my mother cries in public is new. The words crawl out from the sewer of my grief and soil everything before I can screw the lid back on.
It takes little critique to know this sort of morbid comedy doesn’t relieve anyone except the comedian, and even she is left in a stupor once the words land.
