Category Archives: anniversaries

A Season of Loss

We’ve had so much going on this year, and I forgot to buy a yartzheit candle to mark the seventeenth anniversary of my mother’s death. This weekend initiates a trifecta of death anniversaries: my mother (April 7), her mother (April 8), and a beloved aunt (April 9).

I have marked these anniversaries back-to-back for years, often lighting candles in my kitchen. For me, marking death in early April can feel incongruous, an affront to the landscape’s perpetual message of rebirth.

This morning, because our past year has been so complicated, I also forgot that today was my mother’s yartzheit. I remembered only after I opened the kitchen door to let our dogs in from the yard. Nature reminded me. Each time I look at a cherry blossom or daffodil, I remember where I was on a Sunday morning seventeen years ago. I go back to the moment before I learned the news of my mother’s death, when I sat on a sofa while the walls turned salt-lamp pink, then swirled around me. I go back to the the moment after I confirmed the news, when I fell to the floor and opened my mouth to scream but no sound came out. My primary experience was one of silence, which now strikes me as an appropriate metaphor for death and grief.

In the past seventeen years I have mourned my mother, I have resisted cultural silences imposed on the grieving. I have resisted avoiding the topic of death. I have resisted language that denies the reality of death and grief. This blog is one form of resistance.

This week, I’ve thought frequently about how hard it was for me to go back to school after I lost my mother, how much pressure I felt to perform normalcy and perfection. I thought about how I learned to hide my sorrow, and how alien I felt in rooms full of 21-year-olds whose parents were still alive, and often paying their children’s bills. At 21, I had no such resources. I was on my own. To this day, I do not know how I graduated from college, only that I did – on Mother’s Day 2003. Some people tell me I’m strong or brave. But I don’t think finishing college was a heroic act. In a period of tremendous instability, the structure of an academic year gave me stability. I clung to stability. If anything, I feared further change. I avoided uncertainty.

After my graduation ceremony, I went out to lunch with visiting relatives but refused to go out to dinner. Instead, I stayed in my apartment with my sister and boyfriend. We ordered takeout. My graduation was not a celebration, and celebration felt fraudulent. My college graduation was the first major milestone I marked without a mother, and I marked this milestone in public, surrounded by jubilant people, on a Hallmark holiday that forefronts motherhood.

That day, I needed privacy. I needed to grieve alone with my sister. The next week, we’d “celebrate” her graduation. I cannot bear to look at photos from either of these events. I had such a sweet boyfriend at the time, and he stayed with me even though it was hard, and we were both too young to understand the emotional pressures bearing down on us. In the graduation photos, my boyfriend stands next to me. He holds me in a protective embrace. But my eyes are vacant, cold, dead.

I am barely there. I do not want to be there.

Something that bonds Carl and me is that we both lost parents young. We both lost the parents with whom we shared a gender identity – my mother, his father. We both walked across commencement stages, received diplomas, fell in love, began careers, bought homes without those parents present. At our wedding ten years ago, we claimed these losses in a candle-lighting ritual. We acknowledged how light and darkness exist side-by-side as natural elements of human experience, our experience. In our family, grief swims beneath each experience of joy.

This morning, because I could not find a yartzheit candle, I walked from our kitchen to our attic, which we’ve recently remodeled into a meditation/Yoga space and writing studio. I sat on my meditation cushion and lit the only candle we have, a rainbow chakra candle I gave Carl for Christmas. Then I carried the candle through our dark house and placed it on the stove, beside a plate of matzah brei I’d made for Carl’s breakfast. A spoon holder that once belonged to my mother sat behind the candle; it’s one of the few objects I have left from her house.

In our kitchen, the makeshift yartzheit candle still burns, will burn all day. I’ll light another candle tomorrow, and another candle the next day. Outside, the daffodils and cherry blossoms will open more blooms. Each time I see them, I will hold despair and hope in the same gaze. Despair. Hope. Neither cancels the other out. Each magnifies the other. Each reminds me how precious, how beautiful a life touched by death can be.

 

Sixteen Mother’s Days Without You

I don’t remember my first Mother’s Day without you. You died a month before, when cherry trees opened the season’s first blossoms. I remember unrepentant forsythia, dogwoods, and azaleas blooming along the street where you once lived. I remember standing in your living room and drawing the curtains closed. I remember I could not bear the sight of flowers or blue skies.

Surely the mundane and the beautiful could not exist in a world without you. Surely they would not go on. But they refused to disappear. I refused to stop wishing they would.

On my second Mother’s Day without you, I was 22. On this day, I graduated college.

I wore a dress I bought the day before, without you there to tell me whether the hot pink floral print was too much. I wore a matching pink lipstick. No one who looked at me that day would have thought mourner. I was good at hiding, good at pretending everything was normal. As if normalcy could exist on this day, as if normalcy could have been my aspiration.

After the ceremony, I shook Bill Clinton’s hand. (I remember nothing of his speech). Then there was a lunch with a few relatives. But I excused myself from dinner that evening. I cloistered myself in my apartment, ordered takeout. You certainly would not have approved of this behavior. The thing about grief is that it erases social graces, changes all our rules. People pleasing was the first rule I let go.

Still, I did everything I could to avoid thinking about you, which meant I thought about you constantly.

On my third Mother’s Day without you, I slept on the sofa of a woman I barely knew. I had nowhere to live & was starting a new job the next day, which that year was also your birthday. You would have been 51, but I didn’t buy a cake. No one celebrates a dead woman’s birthday. Not even me.

Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten Mother’s Days without you. I don’t remember what I did on any single one of them. Eleven, twelve, and thirteen are foggy too, like the edges of a dream.

On my fourteenth Mother’s Day without you, my husband drove me to a house that was the same shade of storm-blue paint as our first house, the one where he and I lived after we married. This house we went to see had the same street number as our first house too. Weird, I thought.

What magic were you working from beyond the grave? I had this question even though I do not believe in magic or clear categories of afterlife. I know dead means gone. I know dead means never coming back.

Our realtor met us on the porch. Five minutes in, I knew this house was our house, the one where he and I could live, the place where I hoped your grandchild would soon live with us. We already had the nursery picked out. (Top of the stairs. Looks out over the backyard.)

We moved in the same weekend as yours and my father’s wedding anniversary, which also happens to be the same weekend as my in-laws’ wedding anniversary. But I have never known my father-in-law. Like you, he died too young. Still, I am searching for a photo of him, so that I might know him better.

The week we moved in, I placed a framed photo of you on the fireplace mantel. It’s your senior yearbook photo, the one where you are smiling through open lips and your hair is ironed straight.

But I could not bring your clothes –– the ones I saved –– into the room where your grandchild (I hoped) would one day sleep. After 14 years without you, they smelled of mold and rot.

So I did what I did with all your other clothes. I stuffed them in black trash bags bound for Goodwill. Then I went into the backyard and cried. I felt scared and certain at the same time, the way I always feel when I make a hard but necessary decision.

As much as I wanted you to exist in your shoes and sweaters and skirts, I knew you lived beyond them. You lived in me, the same way I once lived in you.

On my fifteenth Mother’s Day without you, I started this blog. You don’t know what that is, and I don’t know how to explain, other than to say these words are my heart living outside my body. These words are you living beyond me.

Writing has been the closest I have come to procreating. This is not because I do not want a child, but because my body has been hostile. You know something about that. And I wish we could talk about it, but dead means silent too.

Neither mother nor daughter, I’m feeling a little uncertain as I face my sixteenth Mother’s Day without you. What stake can I claim in this day? What bouquet or card or brunch date could possibly compare with the brilliance of your life? I am a woman who has no biological or adoptive claim to a child. Do I even matter on this day?

I suspect you’d answer “yes” to that last question. Just as I suspect my sixteenth Mother’s Day without you will be like every strange and ordinary day I’ve lived since you died. Exactly 5,513 days without you now. That’s 132,312 hours, or 7,938,720 minutes, or 476,323,200 seconds without you.

I have counted them all, which is how I also know we had exactly 7,720 days together. That’s 185,280 hours, or 11,116,800 minutes, or 667,009,000 seconds of existing in this world at the exact same time.

Seems like plenty. Seems like not enough.

My sixteenth Mother’s Day without you will be my 5,517th day without you. I have chosen to mark that day not on a calendar, but here, right now, on my heart blog, which belongs to you as much as all the construction paper cards I once made, all the burnt breakfast-in-bed toasts, all the poems with simplistic A-B-C-B rhyme schemes once belonged to you.

Today, by the way, is also your birthday. I know: I get the double whammy of your birthday and Mother’s Day in the same week (sometimes the same day!) every single year.

This morning, when you would have turned 64, I have no gift. But I will say what I said on every Mother’s Day of your life as a mother, what I wish I’d said in every moment we shared, all 667,009,00 of them. I will repeat the only words we ever needed, the best ones we could say.

Thank you. I love you. Thank you. I love you.

I will say these words as if you can hear them, as if you can whisper them right back to me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After You Died

We cremated you. Without a will, or any written instructions, this was a difficult decision to make. I wasn’t sure of your desires, but I believed my sister, who said she recalled your final wishes were to be fully released from your captor body. So I signed my name on a piece of paper the day after you died. Your funeral would be the next day, as per Jewish custom. Your cremation horrified me, but not because it bucked tradition. I could not bear the image of your body burned to a cinder, your ashes mine alone to scatter. Still, you would have laughed at the funeral director. Instead of mom, he called you mother. Very Norman Bates. Had you been there, we would have giggled until our stomachs ached.

The other night I told my husband I felt like I have lived two lives, the one before you died and the one after. We were both falling asleep, and I can’t remember what he said back to me but I think it was, “You have lived two lives.” He has only known me in my second life. He never knew me in my first life, as a person with a mother. He never knew you. But he has carried the weight of your absence with me for the past thirteen years I have known him. He has never once told me to get over it. He has never told me to be a person other than who I am. We met on your birthday, by the way. You’d been dead two years by then.

Around that time, I took in my first stray. He was a black tomcat, like the one you used to have before I was born. He appeared near my apartment in the Louisiana delta. At first, I didn’t want him. But my sister, who was visiting, forced me to adopt the cat. She put her hands on her hips the way she did when we were kids and played “Business Women.” (You should remember she was always the boss and I was always the employee.) She convinced me I could take care of something else again, that I could stand to be needed. So I adopted him that very afternoon. He opened the heaviest door I shuttered after you died, the one marked LOVE.

It felt wrong at first, to love beyond you. But the moment I started, I couldn’t stop. I have four rescues now. No child. For a long time, I was afraid to become a mother, afraid to lose a child the same way I lost you. I was well past 30 when I realized losing you taught me I could bear anything. Losing you taught me not to withhold love. Fingers crossed, I’ll give you a grandchild in the next year or two. Maybe twins :-).

By the way, you are already a grandmother. I know: You look like you could be my sister! But your other daughter already has two sons and a daughter. The eldest looks exactly like you. He makes all your most hilarious facial expressions. Like you, he loves music, loves to sing. He’s particularly fond of The Beach Boys & Billy Joel. His sister has a thing for Taylor Swift. You should hear her sing “Firework.” It’s really something. The youngest isn’t talking yet, but he has the chubbiest thighs we’ve ever seen. If you ever had the chance to squeeze them, you’d never let go.

When I awoke this morning, I remembered the morning you died. I was the same age as many of my students are now. No wrinkles then. No grey hair. At first, I mourned the big things, such as how you would not be at my college graduation –– on Mother’s Day that year. Ugh. But I felt your absence in the small things, how there was no one to tell me to be home by 10 p.m. or to complain that I’d used all the hot water AGAIN. I missed you most in the mornings, that time when we used to sip coffee and read the newspaper. I still miss you in the mornings. This is when I resurrect write about you.

Today is an anniversary, but not the kind that requires flowers or chocolate. Today you are fifteen years dead. My sister will likely light a candle for you, say Kaddish. She has been so good about honoring you on the terms of your faith. I will go to my Spin class, grade papers, prep lessons, steal an ordinary day from the impossible shadow of your absence.

After you died, I didn’t think I could go on. I didn’t want to go on. But here I am, missing you as much as I did on my first day without you. Only now, I can balance the unbearable loss of you on my head, walk beneath it without sinking.