Mom

Next week is the first anniversary of my mother’s passing. She died right before Passover, so this week especially, I have been trying to remember every little detail of my last visit with her, which turned out to be just hours before she died. Truth be told, I hadn’t seen my mother in almost eight years, and luckily got to be by her bedside in time to say goodbye and much, much more. An explanation of all that would take more than a few volumes, and frankly might bore most to tears. My good friends and loved ones are certain my mother waited for me, knew that once I heard she was ailing, I would be by her side. Our relationship had been tumultuous from the first day I voiced an opinion of my own. I think my mother expected we would have the same relationship she had known with her own mother─ close, connected, with few outside influences. My grandmother’s friends became my mother’s friends, her social network confined mostly to family. But it was a much different time, and my mother never got the chance to fulfill any of her own youthful dreams. She wanted to be a fashion designer and at the age of seventeen she showed enormous promise. Unfortunately, she did not get the support or encouragement she needed and then came the war, a husband and two babies within a few short years. Although my mother sometimes showed pride in me and my accomplishments there was always this underlying feeling of competition that made me feel guilty for being me. Above all, I wanted her love. In those last few hours, as sad as it might be, I believe we both got what we wanted.