Ode to Mom

 

With polite professionalism, the Banking Relationship Specialist said quietly, ‘I’ll just have to ask you one security question. What is the name of your oldest best friend?’

Our meeting went on and finished.

This morning, I woke up thinking that the real name of my oldest and best friend is Marilyn. For seventy-five years, Mom was always the one who could listen carefully and then, in that quiet, diffident manner so characteristic of her, she would offer a few pearls of wisdom.

As a teenager, I remember sharing with her about the mother of a boyfriend who I thought was wonderful. The mother, according to the boyfriend, was a nightmare in various ways. Mom looked at me and quietly said, ‘Just remember, he is his mother’s son.’ I found out the hard way that she was right.

She always put herself after everyone else. She took the smallest piece of pie. She wore the same old dress while buying, or probably making, new ones for Judy and me. She didn’t return to the higher education she’d had to forego during the war until Judy and I were independent enough to manage if she were away in classes, or studying.

All with such good grace. With no thought of being the ‘sacrificial martyr’. With love.

I can’t say enough how grateful I am for the blessing of such a Mom, my oldest friend. Always in my corner. A gift from God to me, to the world. She left her mark on all who had the good fortune to know her.

‘That smile,’ one of the care team said to me. ‘She had that beautiful smile.’

Nobody is perfect, but she was pretty close to it.