Good morning,
The other day I was asked a few questions in connection with moving a bank account for my parents’ trust. Presumably these questions are to ensure I am who I allege to be and are part of the “know your client” requirements of the bank. Most of the questions were the run-of-the-mill questions about mother’s maiden name, first school attended, and the like.
One of the questions jarred me for a moment. The account executive asked the dates of my parents’ deaths. As much as I am aware that they no longer are a part of my day-to-day life, it always is a bit of a shock and reminder when I am required to acknowledge their deaths. It almost seems as if not mentioning their death enables me to commune with them in my thoughts without acknowledging the sadness of their loss. Today is the anniversary of my mother’s death 24 years ago.
It doesn’t seem like she’s been gone for 24 years. In fact, sometimes it doesn’t even feel like she’s gone. She is with me all the time. I think of calling her (sometimes I’ll even reach for the phone) when I see something funny that would amuse her; I’ll think of her at a concert; I’ll think of her when correcting someone’s grammar or when considering the absurdity of the latest news item. I think of her when listening to the news in the car, when having an ice cream (we often used to indulge in ice cream together), or when hearing a good joke. Her laughter lives in my mind.
Someone wiser than I says that we carry with us those who are departed. Another wise person says that we are closer to those who no longer are physically are with us than those who continue to share the corporeal world with us.
Twenty-four years without my mother sitting next to me at a concert. Twenty seven years without my sister. Twelve years without my father. Over five years without my son. These losses weigh upon me. While I am so lucky to have relatives and friends all around, I sometimes can feel lost with so many people who have left me behind. But then I remember that I am here now, with friends and family, and with love. And then I realize that we all are merely fellow travelers with friends and family for a brief time. Sooner than we would like, one by one, we’ll all move on and leave a void in the lives of those whom we leave behind. What we do matters. When our physical being is gone, they will carry us with them.
Have a good day,
Glenn
Thanks for this Glenn. It will be a year next Friday since my wife of 47 years passed. Comforting to know that how I celebrate her, talk to her, remember her in little things is “normal.”
One of Marilyn’s closest friends, who is Jewish, recently sent me a newsy email that opened: “When you talk to Marilyn, tell her….” I don’t know if that is a common phrase in your religion, but I found it so reassuring; and life and memory affirming. Of course, I was already talking to her more than once a day with our own news.
Best, Bill Ginn