Mom

"Son, why won't you accept Jesus into your heart?"
"Mom, I do accept Jesus' teachings I just don't go to church because I don't like--"
"Son, God will accept you back. It's not too late!"
"Not for me at least." I mumble.
When I started listening to rock music my mom started listening to Christian rock. When I came into her house today the song "Jesus is Just Alright With Me" was playing. I love this song, but not for itself. I used to sing this song in the halls in high school. It has a damn good groove and the man can sing, but I love the song because of the reaction it elicited. No one ever joined in or reacted in a way that indicated that I wasn't acting like a raving maniac by rubbing my religion in everyone with the power of hearing's faces.
"Son, one day you'll understand that your mom was right. I hope that day is soon."
My mother wears a rosary like a necklace now. Even I know that this is wrong. Rosaries are private prayer tools, not accessories that flaunt a person's apparently constant readiness to burst into prayer. I would respect someone that filled with the spirit of anything to the point where they would spontaneously break into fits of it.
"Mom?"
"Yes son?"
"What's for dinner?" I say into my hands. I'm sitting with both fists clenched, pressing my knuckles together. All I want is to be with the mother I knew before she caught religion, the mother I knew before my father left. Losing passion has a funny way of forcing people into things. My mother's passion was not loving my father, but hating him. All emotions are defined recursively.
My mother sighs. "Meatloaf, your favorite."
"Excellent. I'm starving."
My mother is wearied after her spiel about the Lord. She has given up for the night.

We sit down at the dinner table and say grace because I don't fight tradition. The meatloaf is excellent as always. I take the heels of the loaf because they're burned a little more and the crispiness helps me forget that I'm eating meat shaped like bread. It's tasty anyway, but molded meat will always be dubious to me.
"How is your work going?"
"Well, I'm starting to find a little following."
"People like what you write?"
I sigh at this passive aggression. "Yes mother people enjoy the words I write."
We sit in silence for a while.
"Have you talked to your father lately?" My mother asks because she has nothing else to inquire about.
"I talked to him yesterday." I say to my meatloaf not wanting to see her reaction.
"Oh." My mother says to her meatloaf.
After a while she breaks the discomfort with "You know you look so much like him."
"Mom I told you I don't like when you compare us." I say, slightly more agitated than I want, which only reminds me of his temper.
"I'm sorry. It's just surprising is all."
"Mom please. I don't want to talk about it." My fists are firmly holding my silverware and my voice is annunciating like his used to. I hate how right she is. I hate that I learned to hate this way from him.

Later we sit and watch television and my mother knits. Presumably another blanket for the homeless shelter. When people get as into religion as she is they do the good and suffer the bad, the pain of the filler in their heads. Wheel of Fortune is on and Vanna is as ageless as ever.
"Mom am I like dad?" I want her to say no.
"Well, you are in many ways. Sometimes you sound just like him and sometimes you sound like the opposite of him." She says to her yarn.
"Mom i don't want to be dad. Why do people become their parents?" I say, wondering aloud
"I don't know, son." my mother says sighing.
"I feel like I can't have any original thoughts because I think like him. I talk like him. I guess only the people that are complete departures from their parents are original."
"Oh that's what I wanted to tell you!" She has perked up. "Your sister has decided to join my prayer group! Isn't that lovely? You know there are lots of pretty girls that come to these." She is getting into another angle of her pitch.
"Mom wasn't your mother an old religious nut too?"
She slaps me hard and her face has hardened. The stare of a nun is broken by the sobs of an old woman who is confused. I hold her when she falls into my arms. I tell her that it's okay and everything is fine. She says she still loves Jesus, but she's just so sad and nothing is helping. I tell her that she is bored, she needs something to do.
"I could start playing tennis again. They have leagues for old ladies like me. I could get my friends to join too."
"There you go mom! That sounds great. I have to get on now. I love you." I kiss her and go to the door.
"Son? Will I see you at mass tomorrow morning?" She asks me hopefully.
I decide to give it another try.
"Sure, mom. I'll be there."
She's happy and I'm dreading the next morning. Every kind of change comes with some fear though. Hell, maybe I'll start believing.
As I walk out I'm engulfed in the shadow of my mother's house. I look to her window and see her praying at her window. I won't be attending mass tomorrow.