Mischief

Henry and I shared a similar cultural upbringing in that both had somewhat corporate fathers and artistic mothers. In a kindred moment, Henry had described how his mother had been playing dress up with a fairy that she would converse with regularly. This fairy was akin to an imaginary friend but carried a bit of a religious overtone that could be likened to an angel. During one of these playtime sessions, Henry’s mother came down excitedly to share the news with Henry’s father; while playing dress up in a séance to determine her past life persona, Henry’s mother opened her eyes to see herself standing naked in front of the mirror, save for a pair of yellow rain boots. The clothes she would have picked were supposed to signal her previous life’s profession. Thus, she determined that her nakedness was a product of having been a sex worker in another era. “Can you imagine?” She said to Henry’s father, “I was a prostitute in another life!”

I remember that hearing this story made my heart warm, as my mother mirrored such eccentricity along with a proclivity to talk to her own version of angelic beings. No one else in this world can understand how being raised by such fantastical and ridiculous women can spur the imaginations and mischief of two people, except for perhaps, Henry and myself.