Memorial

Eight years ago, last week, my beautiful mother gave up her guard, changing forever the way I personally approached the start of what millions of others in this country refer to as the "Independence Day" holiday.

The months and weeks before her death were sad and trying for us but she faced them with dignity and bravery that set a mark.  An extraordinary woman, a unique mother, and one of the smartest people I have ever known.  If I had half of her intelligence I would be very pleased.

My mom would have been 94 now. My father, still alive, is 98 and has dementia. Most of their generation of relatives are either deceased or very old.  I have no family historians, nobody to whom I can turn for answers so I have gaps in my knowledge and very little information about my family's past, other than the stories that were told over and over during my own childhood.  I have puzzle pieces that oftentimes just don't fit together. I have a maze through which I cannot come and feel left out when my friends recount stories of their parent's heritage. I think my mother's favorite color was blue. I know she loved the water, everything related to the seashore. I know how she and my father met. Her eyes were soft blue. She struggled with her weight all her life and had problems accepting her image. My father was the first and only man she ever dated. They meet in high school. Courtship, engagement, the War, the wedding. I have the photos and tiny bits of stories of young love and devotion. Never once was "sacrifice" mentioned. The word "regret" also never appeared. I am left wondering. It was none of my business. Secrets were part of the success of their marriage.

Wisdom beyond the stratosphere. World-class speller and mathematician. She knew diddly-squat about history, American or World.  She wasn't allowed to learn the language of her parents and knew little about their lives before their immigration. They made it to America from a life of poverty and they were not turning back; they instead, moved proudly forward and it was through their actions that my mother learned the customs and culture of her ancestors in their homeland. She was an Italian Woman. We never missed a family vacation but we never ventured across the ocean as a family. She had a work ethic and, from the time I was two years old, she held a full-time job.                                                                                           

 Being home all day with children was not fulfilling and I wonder now, had she been like all the
"other moms", how my life might have turned out. I try very hard to wipe away thoughts of having been deprived as a young child, of a full-time mom, and to realize that she sacrificed a field of flowers for a mountain peak of great memories. My childhood experiences and memories included some very special moments of quality time. It took me years to appreciate that and now, I accept it as a gift that only she could have imparted. How very fortunate my brother and I were.

It's true that oftentimes we only realize what we have, after we lose it.  It's also a sad realization that we miss opportunities in our lives to speak our hearts with those closest to us.  I wish my children could embrace that knowledge. Alas, they probably won't. They are humans too. They are busy and productive, the generation that rides on the tails of generations before, the culmination of all that their grandparents dreamed possible, genetically capable of doing great things, just as we were before them. After all, is it not the greatest wish of a parent, to see their own children enjoying the fruits of their own years of labor in the garden of life? I wish I had taken the time to discuss life, to find out more about the lives that shaped mine, to know more about my mother than what I saw. To know more than what I perceived.

We can't go back and re-live our lives.  How very trite that sounds. Mine has been, and forever will be, missing a part, an integral piece of who I am.  Trite. True.