It's Difficult To Explain

In the morning he moves cautiously to the picture of his wife. He kisses it and says something privately as he touches her urn. His action is complete in seconds that you would not notice if you didn't happen to be standing in the back of the room. His wife, my mother, died over a year ago and I, like him, my father, have difficulty in letting her go.
About a halftime of my life ago I was scooping ice cream and setting up a way to remember/ celebrate staff of the five company stores, and its ten year history. The Hall of Legends sign was up on our wood paneled walls. One of the owners of the company, Steven arrived with a framed photo of the first legend; his mother, Rose. She had died the year before. As he handed the plastic box frame to me, he began to cry. He cried a river of tears, in a public place by the front counter. I knew he was sad, I knew that he missed Rose but I thought to myself- get over it, man.
Now I understand. I understand that you don't really know despite years of preparation for the day and how, no matter how well intentioned the best that can be said to you, only"I'm sorry" is really acceptable. The patronizing "at least she got to live a long life" does not lessen the blow, only ignites the fire. I'm still angry too- angry that it was sudden, angry that I was just two days into a new job and overlooked her condition when normally I would not, angry that the doctors sent us home the night before saying she was fine and would be rested, and ready to see us in the morning. Angry that we willingly left. I should have been comforting her. I left her alone.
My mother. I am, much like her, I like to think. Wanting to help, wanting to make a day better for someone else. Can't help but do something goofy. I am not like her, I fear. Not as dedicated to be a provider. Not willing to sacrifice as much as they did. I am not like her although the tendecies/similarities show, I make my own decisions. My parents gave me the opportunity to create myself, and my life, rooted in their sacrifice and their past.
May adapted and loved emails. It allowed her to communicate with friends and family when verbalizing was difficult, she could speak through emails. Calling me to say she had sent me an important email but would not tell me over the phone. She was born and raised in a tiny dive of an apartment in Chinatown, that did not ever feel safe. She had a sister whom she never met who was left behind in China- later to be killed by the invading Japanese army. Her brothers, Dick and Tom were also our caretakers. Uncle Tom was a dear dear person in my life; my uncle, my friend.
My mother was and will ever be, my greatest benefactor. She took me to plays and stage musicals, introduced me to the great movies of the '30's-60's, the MGM musicals, Jerome Robbins "Rodeo", financed travels, always trying to add sweaters, sweatshirts, and socks to all her grandchildren. Walking miles into her '80's- tiny but powerful. Telling me about her childhood and without thinking, letting me hold her hand. Sword fighting at 82 with Oliver, then four. Arms to her side, eyes closed but loving hugs from Dexter and me. Laughing that crazy laugh at hers, jumping at suspense movies, berating my Dad, acting as if she was a Southern miss when they first met. Long play vinyl, the singers. Her community of friends, her need to provide advice, her yelling at the tv screens at the politics of Bush. Her odd 2 year viewing of the Reverend Eugene Scott. Her asking her grandchildren if they wanted ice cream at the same time we were attempting to communicate no eating, no dessert. She had four grandchildren- they would do anything for her because they knew that she had done everything for them. I'm sad that my youngest won't get to know her better.
When I started my job, I took only one day when this went down. All my other days, it was the work, and solitude, retreating to write a journal to her in an empty room on the fourth floor of the office. I had to take my own photo for my work badge and when I have seen the photos, I am grim, old, tired. (I should clarify an earlier regret: although I was slow to get Mom to agree to see a doctor, I did convince her two days later to go).
If she were here, she would enjoy our having lunch at my work and would probably visit every two weeks. My friends would know her. The cool thing is that I could always, with very little notice, bring someone over to my parents house for dinner; May liked meeting my friends, my boss at Peets, Dexter's baseball coach. We once had a friend whose motif was to shock people; things she would say.. Mom had come along to pick up my son at the preschool our children went to and this friend, zeroed immediately into my mother, approached her and said "it is a pleasure to meet you. I have to tell you that your son is a great french kisser". Without reacting, my mom said simply, "don't get sick".
The strangest thing is turning a corner in my parents house and not seeing her. Conflict was purposeful, as Mom was often irritated at one of us for not responding in some way, and we would flock to ease the tension. Now without conflict, it is a house that is too quiet and i fear the conflict will be between the siblings who often communicate without listening. As for the man, my father, he always seems sad and I don't know, don't feel that it is right for me to have him feel any other way. It is up to each of us to find our way, the way we need to go. And fuck me for ever thinking that i know what he feels. Love is precious my friends.