This year three of my girlfriends buried their mothers. When you lose a parent, it feels like the roof has been blown off your house and you are alone, starkly uncovered against the elements. This was the second parent for all of them, and so the feeling of being exposed to the wind and sky and an unknown future was doubly acute.
I could certainly relate, having also witnessed the passing of both my parents. And I say this with the most curious and telling absence of feeling, but while I loved my mother deeply and missed her tremendously, in the 37 years since she died I have never gone to visit her grave except for the afternoon I buried my father with her two decades ago. That is, until last Saturday morning.
I actually don’t know why I never went back. But I was a teenager when she died and now as I reflect on it, I see that I must have been furious that she was gone. Or frightened of facing the feelings her death would bring up in me. I guess I just didn’t want to see.
Mom has been in my thoughts so often over the years. I was her only child and we were inseparable. She came to mind at all my landmark occasions: when I graduated from college and grad school, when I got a job I was terribly excited about, and then when I was promoted to vice president. I thought of her when I got married and later when my husband died. She was especially present when I became a mother myself. Whenever I needed her guidance, because we’d been so close, it was as if I already knew what she would say. I had only to think of her voice and her hand stroking my arm, and I was comforted. While I wish I had known her when I grew into an adult when we could have talked to each other woman to woman, I have always felt that our relationship has continued to develop over the years anyway.
I think it was the fact that I am now at the age she was when she died that made this anniversary of her death so acute. It was always some kind of benchmark for me, lurking in the back of my mind, and I find now I was secretly wondering if I would live beyond that certain number. Because my mother was the pathfinder in life for me, it was as if I did not know how to live past the age she did. So on Saturday I went to find out.
There are only a handful of cemeteries on Long Island, so it was not difficult to find the right one. My dear friend Sonia drove me out there. It was a sunny and crisp morning. I’d brought a few things for our visit. Mom and Dad are buried together at the beginning of a row of graves near some trimmed evergreen shrubs next to a low wall. I spread the blanket I brought on the grass so we could sit with them. Then I arrayed a dozen photographs around the name plate. There were pictures of me from childhood, a photo of the two of them, several of my daughter at various ages (they’d never met her), some photos of the extended family we have created, and a lovely shot of my daughter and me at my young cousin’s graduation. I brought Mom a bottle of ginger beer, her favorite, and some coral tea roses.
First off I told her that her beloved Yankees won the World Series again. She was an avid baseball fan, and would watch any game between any teams at anytime. But she was a New Yorker by choice and remained loyal to her home team to the last. Then we talked about everything else … about how much I loved being a mother and how much of my mothering I’ve modeled on her. My daughter and I are readers, as was she, and we love the arts, as did she. I told her about my life and how much I’ve accomplished, and about the dreams I still have for myself. On the map I brought along, I pointed out the places in the world I’ve seen and the places I have yet to visit. My adventurous immigrant parents bequeathed their wanderlust to their only child, and now my daughter, their grand child, also has a passport that’s heavily stamped and worn with use.
Finally I thanked my mother for giving me her best, and for letting me know often and in no uncertain terms that I was loved without reservation. The woman I am is the result of the girl she raised. Although we were together for only 18 years, the strength and steadfastness of her love has been the foundation of my life and my security in the world ever since.
Death has been a great teacher for me, and the graves of my immediate family are the mile markers of my life. She was the first to go and I knew, standing by her casket all those years ago, that I had only two choices - to die with her or to keep living. My visit with my mother, many years overdue, has confirmed for me that I am happy to say I am still here. I stayed alive. By reconnecting with my mother’s death I have made peace with my own life, and now I can not just survive, I can thrive.
