Same Auld Lang Syne (Text)

When I  was perhaps eleven years old, Mother and I took a trip to Whinny City in  order to look in on the Grandeur brand restaurant there.  Mother and I  went on these outings quite frequently, as she had restaurants all over  Equestria, and it gave me a chance to see the world outside of  Manehattan.  This particular venture was memorable to me not least for  the fact that it took place a week before Hearth’s Warming, but also  because we would happen to run into Storm Gazer.

To those who  don’t know her, and even to some who do, my mother is a cold and  intimidating presence.  Tall, austere and utterly unmistakable with her  hard frown and sunken eyes, Alsesta Grandeur is a muleicorn who  tolerates no shred of nonsense.  Those who love her, however, learn  quickly enough how to spot the subtle, delicate ways with which she  shows she cares. A quick glance, the shadow of a grin, a simple "thank  you”.  These gestures, when offered in her careful way, are equal to hugs  and kisses.  Despite this came the little middle-aged pegasus—by all  accounts a stranger in my eyes—squealing with delight and grasping my  mother’s thin hands in hers.  I cringed, expecting some sort of  explosive verbal carnage.  Instead, Mother smiled.

My mother.  The food critic and master chef feared by all she surveyed…smiled.

“Hello  Gulper,” she said tenderly, allowing the exchange to linger.  The  softening of Mother’s facial features to this extent was something I had  never really seen before.  It may have scared me a bit.

The  pegasus rattled off a series of delighted greetings, flicking her wings  to beckon two other young mares of her breed.  These turned out to be  her daughters, whom she enthusiastically introduced to us.  Mother  turned to me.

“Minolta, this is Storm Gazer.  She and I were very close during our university days in Prance.”

I  told Storm Gazer that I was pleased to meet her, and she told me that I  was beautiful, which made me blush and duck back behind Mother a  little.

“She looks so much like you!” praised Storm Gazer, the  laugh lines around her eyes creasing heavily.  Mother grimaced  slightly.  “It’s a coincidence.  My Minolta was adopted.”

“How wonderful!” said the pegasus.  “Clearly you were meant to be.  Is it just the two of you then?”

This question seemed to catch Mother off-guard a bit.  “Er—no.  I’m married.  My wife is a photographer.”

Storm  Gazer went on to illustrate how she herself was divorced, but how her  two girls were her pride and joy, and that she had found contentment in  the weather industry.  Mother adopted a sort of glassy look in her eyes  that I didn’t understand at the time.

“We live down in Neighoria,  but we hit Grandeur’s of Whinny City whenever we’re in town,” the  pegasus continued.  “Did you end up back in Canterlot?”

“For a while,” said Mother, “But now we’re in Manehattan.  I focus on writing, mostly.  I er, work under a pseudonym.”

“What’s your pseudonym?”

Mother’s smile weakened and she formed the words with physical disdain.  “Zesty Gourmand.”

Storm  Gazer squealed again (never in my life would I have predicted my mother  displaying a warm tolerance for squealing) and announced that she read  Zesty Gourmand’s column all the time.  Mother chuckled and stated she  was glad that at least somepony liked it.  Storm Gazer was pleased that  Mother had found such an ample degree of success.

Mother and  Storm Gazer continued to talk, and the two older fillies hung around  politely.  They occasionally giggled and told me how cute I was, but I  was intimidated by their age and confidence and generally failed to  maintain a conversation with them.

After a while it appeared that  the mares had run out of subject matter, and Storm Gazer did not want  to keep us from our adventures (though Mother assured her that it was no  trouble at all).  Storm Gazer produced a scrap of paper and a pen from  her pocket and scribbled on it. 

“So that we don’t lose contact for another thirty years,” she said, extending the paper to Mother.  “Please call me sometime!”

Mother  gently took the paper from her, and Storm Gazer wrapped her arms and  wings around her in a hug.  Again, I could barely believe my ferocious  mother would allow such a thing, but she briefly returned the hug before  gracefully stepping out of the embrace.

“Goodbye Allie,” said  Storm Gazer, her smile wide but her eyes glossy with emergent sadness,  “And it was a pleasure to meet you, Minolta.  Have a happy Hearth’s  Warming!”

Mother raised a hand as the pegasus and her girls waved their farewell.  “You too.  Goodbye…Gulper.”

And then Mother turned and walked the other way, and I had to skip through the snow to keep up with her.

Mother  put the scrap of paper in her pocket and retrieved a handkerchief, with  which she blew her nose.  We walked in silence for a while.

“Did you love her, Mother?” I heard myself blurt.

She looked down at me, her expression difficult to read.  “I did once.  Very much.”

“DO  you love her?” I was surprised at the questions that were falling out  of my mouth, but I didn’t seem to have much control over them.

“Not the way you’re thinking,” Mother said calmly.  “I love who she was.  I love who WE were.”

My child-mind was trying to do the emotional math.  “Were you happier back then?”

The  great Alsesta Grandeur sighed, her jaw hardening back to the expression  I knew and understood.  “Don’t get any ideas, Minolta.  You are stuck  with Mutter and me.  And I am stuck with Mutter, forever.  Nothing will  come between us, so don’t worry.”

I let go of a deep breath that I hadn’t realized I’d been holding in.  “OK.” I paused.  “Are you…going to call her?”

“I don’t know,” Mother said, her eyes focused on the cobblestones before us.  “We’ll see.”

That  night at the hotel, I lie in my bed with the lights off, feigning  sleep.  Mother watched TV for a little while, then turned it off and  picked up the receiver of the phone.  She dialed a number.

“Hello  yourself.  Yes, of COURSE it’s me.  Who else would be calling from  Whinny City?  Bloody hell, Franzie, you can’t expect me to assume I woke  you up, it’s nighttime.  Now listen…Minolta and I are going to catch  the train back to Manehattan tomorrow.  The restaurant is fine, and—yes,  I’m cutting the trip short.  Why does there have to be a “why”?   Because it’s nearly Hearth’s Warming and I MISS you, you daft idiot!   Right.  See you then.  I love you.  Goodnight.”

And then she hung up the phone, and slept.  And so did I.