I knew exactly what my mother meant by “organizing and cleaning” my closet for Pesach. I would need a miracle to please her
Whoever said that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree never met my mother and me. Unfortunately, in our scenario, the apple rolled far, far, far away from the tree and perhaps was even crated and shipped off to another universe. That’s how different the two of us are.
I’m convinced that when my mother was a student, her neat writing stood like perfect soldiers on the page and words stayed within the margins of her loose-leaf paper. I’m sure she never forgot to do her homework and always submitted assignments on time.
My notes, if you can even call them notes, are artistically designed with doodle masterpieces and swirly fonts dancing gracefully in and out of the margins. I always forget to do my homework and submit my assignments a day after the deadline.
Take another example: my morning ritual. Until my mother decided I was old enough to prepare my own clothes in the morning, she would lay them out perfectly the night before: shirt, skirt, socks, and shoes. Nowadays I yank stuff off the hangers and pull four pairs of shoes out of the closet through bleary eyes, minutes before loud honking announces the arrival of my bus.
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