My mom was the youngest in her family of five kids, and the only girl. Needless to say, she was spoiled. Adored. Loved. Given sparkly red shoes, even when her father couldn't afford them. When visiting her family in southern Arizona as a little girl myself, I remember my mom being the center of attention, still, as the family "baby." This, despite the fact that she had been long married with babies of her own. As my cousin announced at her brother (my Uncle Jim)'s funeral a few years ago: to Jim, my mom was perfect.
Her brother Neal died when he was seven- long before my mom was born. Her brother Merlin died of cancer a few years ago. Then, Uncle Jim. Not long ago, Jim's wife, Aunt Edna, passed away too. This week, her last living sibling, Uncle Tom, passed away. His funeral is tomorrow.
My mom told me today that she feels like an orphan. She is 62.
I can scarcely imagine her loneliness. I can't stand imagining the pain of my cousins.
I once deposed a man who was in his 90s. I questioned him about his daily activities; friends who stop by, things he does to stay busy. He told me that when you are 90 you have to start crossing names out of your address book, one by one, as your friends pass away. And then he sang me a song. "Blue Skies," I think.
I visited Dave's grave tonight, and placed a week-long candle to mark the three year anniversary of his death. While there, I laid on the grass and talked to him a bit. I gave him crap for his fast driving (someone's gotta chastize him), talked to him about work, and thanked him for making sure that I always took the Arizona depositons so that I could see my family. At the end of the day, folks, that's what we have. Our family. Our moms, dads, brothers and sisters. Our children. Our closest friends (who are the family we choose).
I love you Mom, and you will never be an orphan. You still have us, and we will never let you be alone.
Her brother Neal died when he was seven- long before my mom was born. Her brother Merlin died of cancer a few years ago. Then, Uncle Jim. Not long ago, Jim's wife, Aunt Edna, passed away too. This week, her last living sibling, Uncle Tom, passed away. His funeral is tomorrow.
My mom told me today that she feels like an orphan. She is 62.
I can scarcely imagine her loneliness. I can't stand imagining the pain of my cousins.
I once deposed a man who was in his 90s. I questioned him about his daily activities; friends who stop by, things he does to stay busy. He told me that when you are 90 you have to start crossing names out of your address book, one by one, as your friends pass away. And then he sang me a song. "Blue Skies," I think.
I visited Dave's grave tonight, and placed a week-long candle to mark the three year anniversary of his death. While there, I laid on the grass and talked to him a bit. I gave him crap for his fast driving (someone's gotta chastize him), talked to him about work, and thanked him for making sure that I always took the Arizona depositons so that I could see my family. At the end of the day, folks, that's what we have. Our family. Our moms, dads, brothers and sisters. Our children. Our closest friends (who are the family we choose).
I love you Mom, and you will never be an orphan. You still have us, and we will never let you be alone.
1 comment:
I loved what you wrote. It is hard losing people you love. It doesn't matter their age at all - 90 or 60 or 40 or 10 - it hurts when they leave us. It hurts a lot.
I am sure your mom is grateful she has great kids.
I am thinking of you, your mom, and your extending family. No words make it better. You are in our prayers.
Love, Dawn
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