April Fool’s Day: Sometimes I Forget My Mother is Dead

“...why a mother is really important...because in an interesting and maybe an eerie and unworldly way, she stands in the gap. She stands between the unknown and the known….”

~ Maya Angelou

Today would have been my mother’s 90th birthday. She was born on April 1st, 1930 and yes, it was April Fools Day. As a young girl, I loved to hear her tell the tale of how her aunts and uncles did not believe my grandfather, Meyer Joseph, when he called them up to say that my grandmother Rose had just given birth to their daughter Charlotte. “Haha! April Fools!”, they’d all laughed. 

She died more than four years ago, on January 21st, 2016, just as nighttime retreated and dawn slipped delicately into the hospital room, where I sat beside her bed. Sometimes, I  forget she is dead. I think to myself, perhaps I’ll drop by her place this afternoon, just to say hi. And occasionally, I still reach for my phone to share with her a funny story, about my three adult sons, her beloved grandsons, and then I’ll remember.  And more recently, I’ve wanted to show her photos of her new great grandson, my oldest son’s first child. Oh how she would have adored our little Silas Leo!

There are other moments that I miss as well. Watching her take up, and successfully finish, the entire Saturday New York Times crossword puzzle, in ink, no less!  Or observing with awe, on a lazy Sunday morning, how elegantly she ate a perfectly cooked soft boiled egg. I am convinced that nobody ever cracked and savored a soft cooked egg more gracefully than she. 

But make no mistake, I am not one to gloss over the other aspects of her Brooklyn personality. She was, by anyone’s measure, a true and utter “Grump”. In a world populated by scrappy assertive “Grumps” and endearing polite “Duds” (and a goodly number of hybrids), my mother fell squarely in the camp of loveable and maddening Grumps. She was never shy about voicing her opinion aloud, however fierce and negative it might come across, and regardless of the circumstance or venue. For example, even in a darkened, hushed, movie theatre, while the film was playing, and the audience was glued to the screen, she could unabashedly declare out loud to my father, “This movie is terrible!”

In remembering and writing about my mother Charlotte, I sometimes have wondered, what is there for me to say, that has not already been said, more poignantly and eloquently by other writers, about the death of their own mothers? Certainly I have nothing more profound to add. But at the same time, as I write about this singular loss, I discover that I am not only remembering her, but also nurturing my personal process, and honoring my own unique voice. And perhaps that is the significance. 

It’s not about writing some erudite polished piece. It feels more earthy, more gritty, more cellular. In this process, I am reconnecting with the powerful healing manna of creative self-expression. This potent elixir and universal healing medicine. 

Whether I am kneeling beside her grave and spontaneously writing a poem, or standing before a blank white sheet of watercolor paper, just a few weeks after her death, trembling, but trusting the paintbrush to guide me into fertile womb-like intuitive territory, I know without a doubt, I am in the gap, in a profound generative healing process.

Today, as I remember my mother Charlotte, I also notice my body is craving simple movement. I am sorely tempted to put on my mother’s favorite musical, “Singing In the Rain”. Perhaps I will shake it up a bit, move freely about the living room, in harmony with my breath, and “cut a rug” with Gene Kelly. She would like that!

What I have discovered for myself, in these past four years since my mother died, is that grieving is universal and yet so utterly personal. There exist a multitude of traditions and ceremonies throughout the world to honor our ancestors, to remember and mourn our loved ones who have gone before us. And yet it is very much a process of self-discovery, to find what is the best medicine for each of us. And it changes.

I am grateful to have the support of my children and friends and community. And I also feel so fortunate to have a vital expressive arts practice in which to process and transform. The opportunity to paint, to write, and to move has been a profound blessing for my spirit. 

My prayer for everyone is to have all the time, space, and support they need for grieving their losses and for healing. A very wise friend once said to me, regarding grief, that  “The heart takes as long as it takes.”  I have found this to be so true.

During these challenging times, and especially if there is unmetabolized grief sitting upon your own sweet heart, I invite you to reach out to me for support. I am available by phone and online, to help you manifest a nurturing expressive arts practice at home. 

Now through May, during this time of sheltering in place and social distancing, I am offering free consultations to support you in your creative self-expression.

I welcome your inquiries at: meriswalton@creativeresonance.me

And now I would like to share a poem with you that I wrote for Charlotte on 1 April 2016.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

For My Mother Charlotte

No, Mother, today is no longer your birthday, for now you are ageless,
although, just the other day, when you were merely old, 
I sat with you at table and told you stories, regaled you,
with great tales of my sons’ travels and triumphs, 
and you would scowl and “harumph”, grandma code for nay saying,
lamenting out loud their wanderlust and wild risk-taking,
all the while, grudgingly being so proud of their courage and their spirit.

But today you are not there in your wheelchair, sitting across from me,
nor are you squirming in your lift chair, in front of the TV, watching CNN or winning at Jeopardy! 
I cannot find you on the toilet, nor perched upon a bedside commode, instead
you lie inside the cold ground, beneath the shady earth at the Home of Peace Cemetery, 
with the other Jewish dead, on Meder Street.
This afternoon, when I went looking for you, bearing a bouquet of Stargazer lilies,
I could not find you, on your birthday, but not for lack of trying.

Yours is still an unmarked grave, its path not yet paved,
your name, not yet engraved upon a proper marble headstone.
It is almost a year before the unveiling, and so I had to guess where you were lying. 
Do you lie beside Karen Haber, or on the right side, two graves down, from Candy Coonerty?
I was so certain I would remember, so confident that I could find you,
but no, inside these April shadows, cast by the cemetery’s ancient Eucalyptus sentries, 
you were lost to me...again.

~ Meris Specterman Walton

1 April 2016