Mom

It's not her birthday, it's not Mother's Day and it's not the anniversary of her passing...it's just a day like every day...a day that I miss her. She was everything. She sewed to perfection, she cooked everything, she raised 5 children while moving 18 times in 18 years, traveling around the world with my dad in the army. She was the best Granny and Nana. Her house was a home to everyone. She taught us that we are all the same no matter our race or religion. She loved tulips, iris and the color purple. She loved going to yard sales and thrift stores. She loved teakwood and anything made in Germany or Denmark...her favorite places on earth. My mom lived with us the last three years of her life...she was taken too soon, but is no longer in pain and suffering from the effects of Parkinson's disease. I want to share with you something my sister wrote and read at my mother's funeral. For some reason, writing this out helps me just a little.

Irises and Tulips

I won't tell you now of the sweet memories of our mother...

of irises and tulips...and dad's sweet scented roses.

I won't speak of teakwood and crystal...laughter and giggles...

of knitting needles, Hummels...Denmark...and the color purple.

of her quick-witted humor...her ladylike style...organized lists...

a hot cup of tea...and the word "Honey".

Her intense need to be loved...and to love in return.

I won't speak of baking...and good food...and the detailed perfection

of our beloved family home...

where heartfelt conversation 'round the kitchen table...and all our intimate

stories of joy and pain...were only validated upon her hearing them.

I won't speak of her exquisite prism of love and pride the enveloped

each child...each in-law...each grandchild...

each one reveling in the fact that they were indeed...

the most important being on this good earth.

I won't speak of soft...pale...gentle hands...

hands that we have held a thousand times...or secretly observed.

Hands that epitomized hard work...tender care and worry...

perfect sewing...the very essence of her love...

as a wife...a mother...a sister... a friend.

I won't speak of a keen intellect...the sound of her voice...

her familiar quick footstep...each one unbearably silenced these last few years.

Rather...what I will speak of now...

is the love of one man...

a love so strong and enduring, that it broke through the fog

and ravages of this insidious disease.

a love that daily surfaced up to greet his eager heart...

these last few months...

in tiny and imperceptible ways...

a nod of the head in response to his whispers... a softening of the eyes

when he spoke...a lifting up of her lips when he asked for

the many kissed that they shared.

What I will tell you now, is the enduring love of one man

for his good wife...

a man whose hidden tears and love's lament...

were distilled down into the very purest form...

a man who saw only his sweet Roberta as she was once before.

What I will speak of now...was at the amazing and holy hour of our mother's death...

we were witness to quiet strength...and dignity...elegance...and peace.