mother’s day

the last time i spoke with my mom was a few hours before the accident that would end her life. it was a great conversation. the kind any son would like to have as his last. it occurs to me that this is the fourth mother’s day since that fateful conversation and though i miss her, i try not to think about my mom.

the memories i usually allow myself are like snapshots. flat and consistent yet devoid of something deeper. this picture of my mom, as a young girl i never knew, is one of my favorites. i could psycho-babble away my thoughts and feelings but at the core of it, my heart is still broken (or shredded) by the loss and the pain, and when i remember her it is almost debilitating.

born in 1930, dolores henderson was raised the second of three daughters in a philadelphia irish catholic household without a father. my grandmother made the best of an impossible situation during a time when no one had much to spare. my mother grew into a young woman during the second world war, married my father ed duross in 1951, immediately started a family and moved to the suburbs. my parents, having 3 children of their own took in about 11 foster children over a ten year period (which is how they got me). subsequently i was adopted. having heard that adopted children were special because they were chosen, i asked my mother if that was true. she replied “no. you’re the same as everybody else.” my mom made each of us feel special for who we were, not the circumstances of how we arrived. my parents weathered almost 54 years of marriage during a time when the world turned upside down. the strident social conventions of the 50’s, the incongruous, tumultuous 60’s, the sexual revolution and liberation of women during the 70’s, me during the 80’s and finally, the acceptance of old age that would begin in the 90’s and follow into the next century. my mother also had a beautiful voice and sang to us daily, her lipstick was always bright red, she had the cutest dimples, a twinkle in her dark brown eyes and a saucy sense of humor. she adopted a bouffant hairdo at age 32 and worked it until her dying day. her laughter was infectious, her faith abiding and her strength amazing. she was a force.

just for today, i’ll sit here writing about her to you as the tears come. somehow it seems only fitting that i should vividly recall these things. the last time she held me, the sound of her voice, the look in her eyes and the smell of her perfume. day to day, i will myself to forget how much i loved her and more importantly, the singular way that she loved me. in the end, the very end, that love was the only thing of any real importance. the last time we spoke, the last words we shared were “i love you” and “i love you too.” and so i do. happy mother’s day mom.