Yesterday was what would’ve been my mother’s 90th birthday. It’s weird to remember that in 2020, when she turned 87, there was no reason to imagine that she wouldn’t still be around. She was very healthy and vital. What a difference three years makes.
This was the first time my middle sister and I visited the resting place. She brought folding chairs and we sat at the site. We brought flowers (but no sunflowers) and placed them in the vase on the plaque, which was beautiful.
Above Mom’s name was a piano, and next to her, above Pop’s name for when he joins her, an insignia of his military service.
My sister and I sat there, shared memories of our life with Mom, cried, toasted her with coffee (Sis asked, "think we should’ve left a cup for her ?" I replied, "The cemetery workers wouldn’t like that—Mom understands.")
Then we went back home. It was difficult but not as I imagined it would be. I spoke with my father last night, he visits every week, but yesterday he wasn’t up to it. He spent the day on the phone with relatives who called, and our other siblings.
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