Friends,
I guess this is my mother’s eulogy, at least for today, at least for now:
As an English teacher, I can’t help but see the 5 Ws and the 1 H swirling around my mind. Permit me to delve into my mourning:
Whom am I mourning? – Am I mourning my mother, and which one? Am I mourning the one I had, the one I wanted to have, the one I so often enjoyed, or the one who abandoned me? Or, am I really mourning my new granddaughters who I don’t know, or my kids?
What am I mourning? – Am I mourning my mother’s passing? Am I mourning the end of a chance to reconcile? Am I mourning that I don’t have parents? Am I mourning the fact that this once beautiful and brilliant lady is now underground and gone?
Where am I mourning? – I’m mourning here, in New Jersey, in a townhome I rent and where I live alone. I’m not in Atlanta, where my mother is buried, 850 miles away from where my father, her husband of 45 years, is buried? I’m not with my sister, to her delight as she cements and brandishes her victory trophy. I’m not with my kids or my grandkids. I’m not with my “traditional” family.
When am I mourning? – I’ve been mourning for years already. I’m struggling to pinpoint the exact moment my mourning began. I think I know it, and I think you all know it, and it is probably the day she came up to supposedly save my ship. She tossed me overboard, and I’ll leave it at that.
Why am I mourning? – I’m mourning because it’s the right thing to do. I’m mourning because I need to heal and start my life again. I’m mourning because I lost my mom, and, while she might not have been perfect (to say the least), she was still my mom.
How am I mourning? – Well, remember that townhome I just told you about, and remember the lack of a “traditional family” I just mentioned? I’m mourning in that townhome with my “untraditional” family. I’m mourning with my closest friends, the ones who were there from the beginning, the ones who stayed, the ones who knew, the ones who watched this play out, and the ones who learned later on about everything, with gaping mouths, open minds, and kind hearts.
My mother told me that the best day of her life was when I turned 18; it was then that my sister wouldn’t be my legal guardian if something happened to my dad or to her. She said the relief was overwhelming. I’m pretty sure she was saying that, left in my sister’s charge, I would be tortured. David, my lifelong friend and the son of my mother’s best childhood friend, thinks it means that my mother always favored my sister and that my mother didn’t want her burdened with me. I told him that it was during a tender moment between us, so I was pretty sure I was correct about what she meant.
This picture is from the third to last time I saw my mom, taken in October of 2015. Zack had left me only 5 months before, and my mother and I were in enough contact that I went down to Florida for a long weekend. The casino was, of course, on the agenda, and, after my mother took quite the hit at the Seminole Casino in Coconut Creek, she wanted to go to Chico’s in Boca’s Towne Center. I had to laugh when she argued with the sales girl over a credit of six dollars, especially after she had just lost over 200 times that at the casino. But, that’s what gave my mother her pizzazz and her charm.
Well, I think I might have still had social media then (shocker, since, all together now, “I don’t have social media,” said Marla 35 million times). I posted this photo, and lots of people liked it for various reasons. Yes, it’s a lovely photo, but I think people were happy to see us together. But, a day or so after I left what I had hoped was a weekend of healing, my mother called me to reprimand me for posting this (untagged) picture. Her direct quote was, “The problem is that Lisa’s friends see the picture and tell her about it, and she gets so mad at me and doesn’t talk to me.” I stayed quiet, because the Dalai Lama says that “Silence is sometimes the best answer.” I was, yet again, crushed, but remember, my precise mourning for her had started two years before then. And, who knows, maybe it started even earlier than that?
A week or so later, my mother called me and asked me what color accessories I had in my kitchen. Hmmm, I wonder what color I told her? She had never been to my place in Florham Park, even though she had been to New Jersey often to celebrate milestones in my kids’ lives (even Marissa’s wedding). She said that she was offered a free gift from the casino of a Creuset teapot, and she was going to have them send it to me.
I love this teapot; besides being gorgeous, it’s a reminder of my mother. I love this picture.
This other picture was from the day after Marissa’s college graduation. We were at the Ritz Carlton in D.C., celebrating my mother’s 75th birthday. She was in her happy place when she was with her grandchildren. How could she not be, and, in spite of her flaws, she was an involved and caring grandmother who just adored her “millions,” as she called them.
I’m not going to rehash the past; you all know it and live it with me. And, none of it was how I wanted it. I wanted her front and present in my life as well, but it wouldn’t and couldn’t be. I reached out so much, probably more than I should have. I read David the letter that I wrote to her when COVID-19 started. It was such a gracious letter, offering her an olive branch and any pandemic help she might have needed.
David tells me that I am preaching to the already converted when I tell him these stories. He knows the truth, and he knows that they have rewritten it. In fact, he told me that they are now saying that I never reached out to my mother, even after I knew she was sick. They wouldn’t allow me to. And, we won’t even discuss the details of how I found out she was sick. They are spinning the story and have spun this story to unrecognizable and dizzying lengths. And, having to find out about her death from David, two days after the fact, is unconscionable and beyond human decency. All of this is.
My mother would always say that I could always make her laugh, even when she had the most awful day. Truth be told, I got my sense of humor from her, along with my face and my love of Scrabble and literature. She was way smarter than I am, though. Again, truth be told, she was the smartest person I ever met.
Rest in peace and poetry, Mommy. I will miss you.
Yit-gadal v’yit-kadash sh’may raba b’alma dee-v’ra che-ru-tay, ve’yam-lich mal-chutay b’chai-yay-chon uv’yo-may-chon uv-cha-yay d’chol beit Yisrael, ba-agala u’vitze-man kariv, ve’imru amen. Y’hay sh’may raba me’varach le-alam ulehalmay alma-ya. Yit-barach v’yish-tabach, v’yit-pa-ar v’yitromam v’yit-nasay, v’yit-hadar v’yit-aleh v’yit-halal sh’may d’koo-d’shah, b’rich hoo. layla (ool-ayla)* meen kol beer-chata v’sherata, toosh-b’chata v’nay-ch’mata, da-a meran b’alma, ve’imru amen. Y’hay sh’lama raba meen sh’maya v’cha-yim aleynu v’al kol Yisrael, ve’imru amen. O’seh shalom beem-romav, hoo ya’ah-seh shalom aleynu v’al kol Yisrael, ve’imru amen.
A Martini Toast 