My mother, Roslyn, died in 2008.
It’s hard to realize that it’s been so long because she is with me every day. I look like her, I sound like her. My hands move like hers. It’s all that as well as her “stuff” is in every room of home — not a lot, but enough. The memories never stop.
Mom lives in me.
I’ve assimilated her phrasing. When I use it, I hear her, and my promise never, ever to say that again shatters. She moved her perfectly manicured hands in ways I must have memorized since I can look at my hands and see hers. It is an odd sensation. It makes me smile.
Mom lives around me.
Throughout my home are bits and pieces of her life. A designer lamp in the living room, unplugged. Necklaces from her travels around the world displayed in my bedroom, hanging from hooks on my cabinet doors. Outside is a green split-leaf maple that she bought for me. It is over twenty years old and must be moved — if possible. If not, it will cut down. It’s only a tree and it’s killing me. With all the rain, it is looking magnificent — a perfect specimen of its kind. Another connection with the past broken.
Mom made our clothes and designed our house.
Mom had a checkered past. She was a dress designer, seamstress, artist, set-designer, architect, rebel, real estate maven, master-level bridge player, golfer, and businesswoman. She graduated from Pratt, in New York City. She could do anything she made her mind up to do. The degrees didn’t matter, she had a head for design and the skills to get what she wanted. I must have gotten my entrepreneurial skills from her — although she was much tougher than I could ever be.
Mom perfected the few meals she cooked
We also share our lack of imagination in the kitchen. She had her “go to” recipes and managed to collect the key traditional ones from my grandmother by measuring everything. We still share those dishes today. One or two may even make it to the next generation.
Mom knew rules were made to be broken — if only by her
Our Jewish home was kept kosher. Mom and her brother used to eat lobster out on the porch. During the Sabbath, Friday night to sundown on Saturday, there was no smoking in the house. Mom and I used to go to the RKO, sit in the smokers section and watch movies every Friday. My dad never asked and we never told.
Mom loved grapes
In her later years, after her first stroke, we’d go food shopping together. Today, one of the first things I see in the grocery store are the fruits and vegetables, specifically the grapes. Mom always tested the package of grapes she planned to buy to make sure they were sweet. Before the stroke, it took all of a few seconds. After the stroke, it would take her forever to find the right bunch. At first, I would wait. When I realized I could leave her there and do the rest of the shopping and be back to her by the time she found the right grapes. Today, I see the grape display and smile.
In the end
I was my mother’s caretaker in her final years. We became closer than ever. I knew how she breathed … and I knew when she stopped.
“Mom, wherever you are, I love you.”
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