GUEST VOICE: Laying my mother to rest

The author's mother, Eve Wolfman, 18, on her wedding day

Yesterday was a tough day. I hadn’t expected it to be so difficult. It was the unveiling of my mother’s tombstone monument. 

Although she passed away a year ago, my mother has been with me every single day since then. An invisible friend who has been hovering close to me as I’ve participated in my daily activities. It’s as if there has been a constant stream of her words in my head – as I go about my shopping, when she reminds me to hold my tongue, when I remember I must share an event with her during our regular lunch at Tim’s Donut Shop on Saturdays, when I’ve needed help to unravel a knitting conundrum, or just to share a tantalizing piece of gossip. She has been my constant companion.

I knew, of course, she was no longer on this earth, but I hadn’t really let go of her. I heard her voice, her wise words of instruction, thoughtfulness, support, and her laughter.

Yesterday, the rabbi read the words on the tombstone and talked about the profound gap between the two dates carved into the stone, the gap that connotes the many, many years of living. 

And then I saw her.

She flashed through my mind, wearing an apron, presiding over the Friday night chicken soup dinners; the walking up and down with crying babies; the running toward the bus with a light foot and returning with a chocolate cake and white fish. 

I saw her carrying heavy loads to the car for my father; and dashing up flights of stairs to retrieve an object. I saw her with her arms around me, knowing when an embrace was needed. I saw her in purple suits and green velvet dresses, always a fashion sense at sale prices. 

I saw her standing and ironing every Monday night behind our store. I saw her engaged in lively conversations with customers and rising early to get us on the road for a summer family vacation  – always a bubbling roasted chicken wrapped in blankets for the trip. I saw her both young and old. I saw her sunburned on a trip to Florida. Always on the move, always flying toward someone or something, never thinking of herself.

And I witnessed the lesser moments. When her legs failed her, her energy waning, a stony silence corrupting her face. The many faces of Eve that ranged from my young, active, smiling–faced mother to the too-quiet, seated, 90-year-old.

But standing in place by the stone yesterday, I, the official mourner, experienced finality with the sounds and sights of my dear mother. The rabbi said she was now with the eternal, and like an angel, she felt as if she were ascending upward, released from earthly connotations and bindings, no longer bound by the ties that had kept her here for me. 

It was painful to allow her to leave. And as I recited the Kaddish, I began to quiver and cry. The terrible release of both her and me.

Before me was the lifeless hunk of stone heavily attached to this earth, a symbolic memento of years passed in joys and trials and devotion, truly only a marker. And yet, the simple words, the briefest of words, the single adjectives  – “beloved,” “treasured,” “cherished” –  carved into the rock unleashed a storm that cracked my indifference to the coldness of the funerary stone.

Later, I thought of a recent article I had read by Hillary Clinton who, on the passing of her own mother, reflected that when someone dies when they are young, we grieve for all they have lost – children, grandchildren, future possibilities. However, when the person is older, like my mother, our thoughts are for ourselves – what we will miss without their presence. Yes, that was it. I selfishly wanted to hear, see and touch my mother again, say goodbye properly, and tell her how much I loved her.

Then the rabbi read a poem about how at first we are our parents’ dream and then they are ours. Simple but true. Particularly now.

Will I only hear and see my mother at crucial moments in my life now, associate her with the opening of flower buds or the last dribble of snow? I don’t know. The unveiling of her tombstone has changed things for me. Perhaps that is what it is supposed to do. n

Patricia F. Goldblatt was a program officer at the Ontario College of Teachers. Her articles on education, diversity, books and travel have been published internationally and locally. You can follow her here.