January 5, 2025

The words come heavy and dark these days. The loss of a parent, even one who has lived a long and fulfilling life to the age of 96, is not easy to process. There are not the tears that I expected. There are not howls of agony. My mind understands that death is something that is meant to be in the scheme of things called life. I can accept that, but still, there is a void, and I am not sure how long or how deep it will be. The wound is too fresh. The loss too recent. I know that I have been blessed more than most to have a mother to call mom through all these years. And yet, I wish, there could be just one more conversation. One where I could ask her all the questions that have been popping up in my mind lately. One where I could receive the answers that she was never able to tell in her life time.

I would ask her to tell me a story about growing up during the Great Depression and what it was like to witness the first signs of World War II. It came just as you were entering your teens. Were you fearful at night when you heard the radio broadcast the evening news? How did it feel to leave school at age 16 to work in the factories of Fall River? I know that was common in those days, but did you feel cheated when so many others got to graduate and go to on to college? Or was helping your family receive electricity for the first time worth all of that?

I’ve heard the story about how you lost your little brother Charlie to a gunshot wound, but I want to hear more. How did that gun come into the hands of your young neighbor? I want to know him in my heart as you once did. I want to know more about how you met dad and all those choices you had to make when you decided to marry. How did it feel to leave the small town of Dartmouth where you grew up for the great city of San Diego where dad was stationed? Tell me how you missed your own mother with a heartache so deep that you felt the need to return home. How were you able to raise six children with so little means? How were you able to produce the countless meals over the years with so little thanks from us kids? You didn’t leave a journal or a diary behind, and so I am left to wonder about the stories left untold. What were your secrets? What were your dreams? What did you leave undone? How can I honor your name in the way that you would wish? I search my heart for the answers you will place there … in time.