Once there was a woman.
Once.
No longer.
Not now.

(This is a writer’s technique. I use the past tense immediately to warn the reader that this is a tragedy.)

Once there was a woman. She grew up, married, had children.
She was young, beautiful, talented, smart. A leader.
She became a teacher.
There were friends and parties. Luaus even.
And there were tragedies. Her husband died.
She married again. She created a family out of fragments.
Her daughter died.
The pain was excruciating.
She created a family out of community.
Her second husband died.
She created more family. Even out of strangers.
She was loved and respected. Everyone thought highly of her.

Thus it came as a shock to discover she had been instrumental in the ruination of her son’s life.

She ruined my life with food. She said “Cooking is an act of love.” She loved to cook for those she loved. But then, everything was an act of love for her. Refusing (or being forced to accept!) a second serving was a constant source of friction between us.

She ruined my life with generosity. I have wandered through life thinking everyone must be as wonderful as she was. It is what I had always known and therefore came to expect. There were, of course, many disappointments. Everyone was not like Mom.

She ruined my life by living tzedakah. Quietly doing what is right. Demonstrating service in everything she did. Watching her live made it very difficult to shirk responsibility.

She ruined my life with secrets. Until this month, I had no idea I had so many brothers and sisters. People I have never met keep telling me “She was my second mom.”

And then, she got sick. A terrible disease. She went into the hospital where, for 30 whole days, she was poked, wheeled around, not allowed to sleep, stuck with pins and tubes and lived with the noise and bother of that place. She was fed food that was not like the food she created. It was not a happy time. But she said nothing about how awful it was.

She came home. She wanted to get better. Oh, how she wanted to get better. But she was weak. And the terrible disease was doing its work. She grew weaker. And weaker. Oh, how she wanted to get better. She knew there were so many people who counted on her. She knew there was so much good left that she could do. She felt this, not as a sense of duty, but just as ‘what is’. It was how she should be in the world. It was how she always had been.

She died without complaint. She did not cry out. “After all I’ve done…” or “After all I’ve been through…”. She didn’t shout “It’s not fair!”

And that is how my mother ruined my life. By example.

I want to run away and pretend it didn’t happen.
But I can’t. Because she wouldn’t.

I feel I should let my heart squeeze into a ball and never feel joy again.
But I can’t. Because her dearest wish was for her children to be happy.

I want to rail against God. I want to wave my arms and cry to heaven “After all she’s done! After all she’s been through! She was so good. So kind. So generous. So loving. It’s…. not…. fair!”

But I can’t. Because I am my mother’s son.

She placed the bar so very high.
It is not something I can reach.
It floats there
Above us
Reminds us
Inspires us.

-----

Usually, when I finish writing a story, it is a joy and a satisfaction to place the final words on the page.
Those two words which close every story.
There is a sense of completion.
Finality.

But I cannot write those words.
I will not write them.
She said, “We live on in the memories of others..”
She said, “It is about the good we can do while we are here.”
She said, “Our deeds tell the story of our life.”

So how can I write those words that end a story? We are all part of her story. We are still telling it.

There is a song by Loudon Wainwright in which he sings

When you were alive I was never alone
Somewhere in the world there was something called home

I am my mother’s son. I cannot cry out “Where is home?”
Rather I must do as she did. Create it.
Create it with love. Every single day. Every single person.
Through every joy. And every tragedy.
Even this one.

Like her, I…. we…. must meet it all with strength, and caring.
Determination, and insight.
Generosity, and compassion.
We must all be this mother’s children.
And let our lives be ruined by love.