Keith insisted the two of them had a connection.
It was awkward. The woman was my mother.
She was beautiful by any standard.
Moon started to sexualize her soon after I showed him a photograph snapped of my mother in a flowered smock, the ordinary, shapeless, tent of a day dress popularized in the fifties. It was my second North American tour with the Who. I had settled in.
It did not seem to matter to him that she was now eighty-five. Of course, that says something easily predictable about him.
Ridiculously, this did not counterbalance my discomfort. I am not anybody’s definition of a prude. I have done and seen too much, but this was my mother he was wanting.
He was smitten with her in that shy British way. He would talk to the photo like he would to prostitutes. As if he might be successful provided he played his cards just right.
He would bring mother up to me out of nowhere, regularly wanting to see the picture. The trajectory of my mother’s life and death were, looking back on it now, much the same as his, inevitable and sad. She wasn’t much nailed down either.
I saw them as hapless geese plowing deliberately into the propellers of an aircraft taking off from God’s airport. Neither the plane nor their shared psychosis was willing to alter course. They had no chance.
I loved them both. My mother more. Their broken feathers scattered all around me. Moon’s drifted over everyone.
She died conveniently between tours.
He did not often mention her after that, except to question whether I was any closer to locating a dress like the one in the photo.
Of course, in his size.