My Mother was a Tailor

      The evening is crisp this February 14, 2014. I stand facing the Pacific Ocean in lovely Point Fermin Park in San Pedro, California. The Lighthouse built in 1874 and lit the same year stands like the resplendent bride against the blue and lavender aging father sky giving her away.

     Across the street is a small crowd of riders. Looking at their patches, I gather they are Mongols , so I turn away quickly and just stare at the tumultuous water down the cliff. With the wind blowing in my ear, I catch a few notes of the Animals’ “House of the Rising Sun” emanating from somewhere in the bowels of the tightly knit, drunken moto crowd.

     Childhood memories float slowly into my head as I breathe deeply. The smoke wafts by, while laughter roars pierced with the occasional feminine cackle from the gentle ramblers across the way. The sounds make me smile. Ah, yes, the memories of my youth flutter about like so many sauced bridesmaids. I recall mutter of Ambrose Avenue, Los Feliz, instructing me in her delicate home when I was nine.

      “When you are done placing the tulips and African roses in the vases move on to the restrooms. I want them spotless,” demanded a sophisticated voice from the sewing room. Anxious to get five minutes alone with my extremely beautiful and refined mother, I obeyed diligently.

      Two pelicans break my reminiscing with the heavy sound of their wings. I imagine that one is a ring bearer and the other the flower girl escorting the exquisite lighthouse bride; and why not? It’s Valentine’s Day after all.