Life is eternal and love is immortal and death is only a horizon.  Or so says Carly Simon.  For a long time, I thought she was singing, “Life is a turtle,” and so did my son (hey, she sang eensy weensy spider, didn’t she?).  A little like my revelation about Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

These are the days during which, each year, my sister and I re-live the final days of my mother’s life, seven years ago now.  For those who haven’t gone through this life-changing experience, all I can say is, may it be a long time before you know such pain.  That is a paraphrase of what one says when one takes leave of a mourner during shiva.  I would add, may it be a long time before you know such bewilderment and loss of place in world.  My father is still alive (thank G-d) so I don’t stand as an orphan (no joke, no matter how old you are, when your parents are gone, you are  an orphan).

I remember those days in razor-sharp color and in stark relief against the background of the mundane. Life is truly amazing when you are focused and grateful for the little things.

On December 13th (2 days after my mother’s 76th birthday), I had my sister paged in her ICU (which I had never before done and have never since) and told her that Mom’s health had fallen off a cliff and that she should just come to their apartment where I was waiting.

It is odd knowing that something has changed and that something set an irreversible course toward death.  I can’t describe what it was that made me know that we needed to gather the family (some of whom had to come from afar and make arrangements for child care).  I think my mother, the consummately considerate person, was signaling to me that we need to give everyone notice.  After all, my mother was the de facto matriarch of a far flung clan of family and friends.  All would want to come.  And all did (except her brother, who lives blocks away, but let’s not talk about that right now).

My sister and I were focused on Mom and Dad and the waning days.  We laughed and cried harder and took the conversations about life, love and loss with my mother with the extra gravity of knowledge being passed from one generation to another.  And, one full day before my mother lapsed into a coma, she gave each of her children her blessing over our current lives and her hopes for our futures.

I was so aware of my feelings and the existence of my mother in this world, in those dark days, and the stories she wanted to be told again and the memories she wanted to be re-lived as she entered the hereafter.  I remember the way she laughed until tears came when hearing old standards of family antics (even though I am scared that I can no longer actually remember her voice).  And, the way she produced my father’s and her ketubah (marriage contract) when my father averred that there was not one.  And, the way she smiled at her children’s disbelief that she and my Dad would take our uncle’s suggestion about a rabbi for their wedding (after all, he WAS a criminal defense attorney who had no synagogue affiliation).  And how the rabbi was imprisoned for kosher fraud AFTER they were married.  Yes, the Angel of Death hovered, but we had a few more days and we were going to love my mother and celebrate her legacy with her until the inevitable happened.

My mother (never one to hold back when she needed information) always refrained from satisfying her curiosity when there was no useful purpose.  In that way she was true to her Jewish roots of not entertaining idle gossip.  But, in these days, she asked questions merely to satisfy nagging puzzlements, like why did so-and-so have a white and peach theme to their wedding.  (In this particular wedding, groomsmen wore white tuxedos with peach-colored frilled tuxedo shirts.)  The beauty of these questions was that no one was really offended and, more importantly, she was at peace with life’s bigger questions, so she could indulge herself a little.  So, G-d will forgive a dying woman a little loshen hora especially if the people talked about were present to answer the questions.

She left us gently, having blessed us and having told us she had a good life.  A double blessing.

Everyday I miss my mother.  Everyday her memory is a blessing.  Seven years later, her death continues to transform my life and my world view for the better.  I am a kinder, gentler person and a more conscientious world citizen as a result of her life on earth and, sadly, her death.

Oh, Mom, I know that you had to leave because the pain and disease were too much.  And I knew you hung on months longer than was bearable (with all the pain) because you didn’t want to leave Dad alone.  You believed your children were strong enough.  And we are — you made us that way, but that doesn’t mean we don’t cry and want you here with us, now and for always.  Dad lives on, but only because he immerses himself in the memories of you and your shared love — a true love story in times of disposable relationships.

May you rest in peace.