Nearly one month ago, my father purchased a laptop...his first ever computer. Now, being a member of gen-y, I had the benefit of growing up with a computer in the home. My parents hired someone to set up that big clunky computer in our home office sometime during third or fourth grade. My father, after a few rounds with DOS, decided that it was not for him. He never tried to use a computer again—a little shocking for someone who owns his own business, no?

Needless to say I am pleased as punch that he has decided to join the digital age. He has mastered the touchpad on the laptop and even exclaimed with glee that it seemed much easier than that separate "rolly thing".

…man after my own heart.

Nick and I spent several hours with him right after he brought the computer home, and I set up a wireless network for him and increased the font size on the screen. I created an email account for him, though I doubt that anyone but me has his address! He plays solitaire daily and calls me regularly to tell me the score--so far, the game has won way more than he has. He also likes to search for Moen faucets and Farm-All tractor parts, but I don't like to talk about that.

He left a message for me at work yesterday wondering if I would be available to celebrate Grandma's birthday in a week. I, evil thing that I am, sent him an email and left a message on his cell to check there for my reply. He was the cutest thing! He called during lunch in a panic because he couldn't figure out how to look at email—every time he tried to type his password it came out as stars! "What am I doing wrong!?" he cried.

No doubt about it, I am closer to my father now than I have ever been. Relationships take effort and open minds. When Mom died, I truly felt orphaned. Not that my father has ever been a poor father, merely that I was blinded with grief for the parent that doubled as my best friend. My vision is clearer now, and I can see the pragmatic, kind, and generous man that he is…so many qualities that I respect and hope that I in some way possess.

I really was blessed with my parents, both of whom I deeply admire. The word that comes to mind when I think of them is "pure". Not that anyone is perfect or deserves to be put under that expectation, but they never pretended to be someone who they were not. Honest in their shortcomings and accepting of mine, I could not love my parents more. I now consider my father one of my best friends. I am happy to share with him the secrets of the digital age…finally.

This year, as Mother's Day approached, the hovering weight above my chest fell. Part of me feels like this is a regression, a depression that has reemerged after I worked so hard to build myself back up after Mom died. This year, I looked in the mirror one morning and it struck me: my mother is dead. I can never be a mother. This day will never mean anything at all to me; a bitterness and a deep hurt has surrounded me since. You can only pretend to be okay with everything for so long.

My memories blur and then grow agonizingly clear. I made myself "forget" two years ago. It seemed easier then, when the hurt was so recent, so real, and I wasn't sure if I could survive without her. I suppose it is time to actually deal with this emptiness. This all comes at a moment when my brother has fallen to depression, sending a late night text message wondering if I still had the slide show we played during her visitation, and my father has signed up for a fresh round with grief counseling.

This year, instead of being a party pooper, I elected to stay home from all Mother's Day festivities. My brother did the same...we are in the same boat of past and future reasons to celebrate—he tells me he never wants to be in any relationship at all because it hurts too much when people die. At the risk of sounding immature and whiny, this isn't fair.

Normally I have my wits about me, my rhetoric down. "There's a bigger plan; we're too small to see." I'll recite something she once relayed to me..."The word 'deserve' should not have been invented. Who are we to decide?" But right now, it all all just seems so unfair.

Thursday afternoon, I decided that I needed to run away, even if only for a day. Nick helped me plan a quick trip to Chicago, and we spent yesterday exploring the city and catching Wicked at the Ford theatre.
Today, reality returns. I think Nick was quite surprised when, on the trip home, he asked if I wanted to stop and visit her grave today. I clamped my lips and shook my head; gigantic alligator tears leaked from beneath my sunglasses.

Last year, I decided that I have come to save up all of my mourning for Mother's Day and her birthday, the two days that have always been about her. This year, I am not quite sure that just two days will be enough. I have been able to talk about her fondly, in humor and warmth…trying to relay just how awesome of a person she was. Lately, I have been unable to say anything. I am overcome with images. I see her pregnant, rubbing her belly and talking to me like she told me she did. I remember us cuddled in bed together, talking and giggling. I feel her hugging me.

And then I feel it all go away.

I have confessed my Jane Austen addiction before. I sit wrapped in a bouclé throw and under a purring Sophie watching the A&E series. As time passes, I wonder that I know every line of this five-hour film. What keeps me coming back to a story that I know so well? Is it personal joy, or is it the joy that remember in sharing it with someone? A worthy question, and one that I am unable to answer.

I have just now reached the conclusion of the first DVD, the moment when audible breaths catch, and Mr. Darcy confesses his love for Elizabeth. "You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you." No wonder I spent a decent portion of my adolescence in love with Collin Firth, huh? But instead of losing myself in the conflict and the rawness tonight, I lose myself in memories. Mom bought the six-part VHS copy when it came out in the 90's. That tidbit probably tells you little knowing that the two-part DVD is $20…but that VHS set was nearly $150.

We would take a week every year, watching one tape a night until we were through. Days four and five were the best, when the original conflicts lessen and Mr. Darcy puts Caroline Bingley in her place. FINALLY. Hate that woman!—in every medium I've seen/read her presented! Yet, I find my emotional involvement with tonight's viewing detached.

Boredom does not seem to be a factor. Is it melancholy? Stronger emotions trumping silly fantasies? Is it a jaded outlook that makes this story unbelievable? Is it a calm contentedness in my own life that makes romanticizing this story unnecessary? I think it's likely fatigue, knowing we are faced with choices regularly—hard choices—and they may or may not lead to happy ends. I do not care to think of them.

This all seems very inane, doesn't it? Welcome to the Blogosphere. It's just that I find it curious that I no longer lose myself in stories. My energy, heart, and time is better invested in my own life anyway…but I feel as though I have lost part of my identity.

Yesterday, I had to take an Implicit Association Test for my Ethics class. All my life, my mother was my idol, the person that I always hoped that I could be. From her, I have learned to champion for the underdog, to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. I will not abide a bully. This being stated, it should come as no surprise that prejudice makes me see red.

I took the Race IAT. After a series of questions, there is a sorting portion. The site instructs you to press the "E" key to sort to the group on the left and the "I" key to sort to the right. At first, one group was African American and one was European American, and the participant was to sort rapid fire pictures of people's faces into each group. Next, there was a good group and a bad group, and the participant was to sort rapid fire words into each group. Next, African American was combined with good and European American with bad, and the participant was to sort rapid fire pictures and words into the right groups—the the group pairings were reversed. The point was to go as fast as you possibly could. The test rated me as neutral. I found it disturbing that I part of just 17% of test participants that have received that rating.

My facilitator asked if we found our results accurate. My only reply could be, "I hope so." Can prejudice be measured? While feeling no personal preference for one race over another, I bit my tongue while I lived in the South. I was taught to keep quiet when a grandparent said something racist. Does this add to my prejudice, or my tolerance? I can only hope that as the generations pass, that 17% continues to grow—though less progress has been made in the past 40 years than in the 10 years before that. A subordinate group member will be the next Democratic Presidential Candidate. This is a thrilling time, and I can only hope that we succeed in our mission to love one another.