Remembering My Mother

Today would have been my mother’s 99^th birthday. It’s been 18 years since she died and, truth to tell, I don’t think of her all that often. Time, as they say, softens the blow of a loved one’s loss. It’s surely the case with my feelings toward my mother. I do, however, keep her birthday as an event on my calendar so I’m reminded at least once a year of her presence in my life.

My father died 21 years before her and my brother and I made sure she was taken care of until her final moments. I must admit there are moments—even to this day—when I question whether we did all we could for her, but I don’t find doing so all that useful as I am pretty sure we did out best. We weren’t wealthy or powerful; just a couple of working class guys doing our best.

I even lived with her for a while to help her stay in the house she had been living in for some time. I don’t quite remember the details of why that changed; it was probably due to my needing to get on with my life. Shortly after that we moved her into a modest one-room apartment not too far from the house where she had been living.

After she died, my brother and I (don’t remember if our sister was able to help) went to her apartment and cleaned it out. As I was going through her stuff and deciding what to do with things, I came across a birthday card I had sent her from US Navy boot camp, in June of 1966. That she had kept it all those years moved me to tears. After all, my feelings over her loss were still pretty raw.

I’m sharing these pictures of the card and what I wrote mostly as a way of preserving a bit of my history and as a testament to my mother. She was very good to me and, although I have gotten over her death (hell! I’m now contemplating mine) I am grateful for what she did for me and how much she loved and took care of me.