Beach Heart (a discovery on an otherwise ordinary day)– Photo by Hallie Swift
Every holiday– every birthday–
every year;
my mom was giddy with excitement.
In anticipation
I’d send a reminder to
cousins and friends;
her photo with a note:
hugs and kisses welcome here!
Year after year,
flowers and cards and visitors and candy
descended on the nursing home;
just the thought of it
made me giddy too.
They Say It’s Your Birthday–Photo by Hallie Swift
Now that she’s gone,
holidays and birthdays
stare at me
from the calendar page;
each promising to deliver
its own private havoc.
Standing in a checkout line,
(is it Mother’s Day already?)
I avert my eyes from
the greeting card display
but it’s too late.
I swat away tears
fumble coins
bungle amounts;
the customer behind me
sighs
with New York impatience.
I want to tell her
(this has never happened to you?)
it doesn’t take much to rattle me–
Father’s Day-
Easter baskets-
Valentines-
ENOUGH!
But
I know
I’m not the only one
upended by the innocuous.
(Facebook reminds me)
there’s no such thing as an ordinary day;
it’s always someone’s
birthday—
anniversary—
or even
death day,
for that matter.
And these extraordinary
ordinary dates
reverberate
on the page and
in our minds;
none of us escaping
the silent struggle
no one else can see;
more of us
in mourning
than you would ever know.
Recently
an ordinary,
unremarkable
winter’s day
was
(would have been)
my mother’s 100th birthday.
I proclaim her milestone
on Facebook
–the new village square–
a photo from our cross country drive
only months after my father died;
a widow at the age
I am now.
My mother turns toward the camera
a quintessential tourist pose,
the Grand Canyon behind her;
alone–
strong–
brave–
(or do I detect a rueful shadow in her half smile?)
Happy 100, Mama!
I hit post—
and discover instantly
I am not done.
Suddenly galvanized
by the facts of her life,
I continue my exploration;
one by one
photo by photo
hour by hour
I recount the twists and triumphs
of 95 years.
With each addition,
a forgotten woman emerges,
my Mama.
And I realize:
until this day,
her last decade–
the decade of dementia–
had dominated my memories and
belied her life.
I had allowed the confusion, pain and grace of our final years
to become her whole story;
our whole story.
But she was so much more.
As I unbury my dead,
a chorus of cousins and friends
cheers my revelations–
helping me strike back
at a calendar filled with dread.
Dates loom large;
on the 100th anniversary of my mother’s birth
her story challenged my grief;
my sorrow finally tempered by
understanding,
pride,
and yes, even
giddy excitement.
That evening
my husband took me to dinner;
we raised our glasses high in the air
the end of an extraordinary ordinary day
Here’s to you, Mama
what a life—
happy 100!
nothing she did
or said
was quite
what she meant
but still her life
could be called a monument
shaped in a slant
of available light
and set to the movement
of possible music
(from “The Grandmother Cycle” by Judith Downing Converse Quarterly, Autumn)
It’s My Birthday Too Yeah– Photo by Hallie Swift
They Say It’s Your Birthday, words and music by Lennon & McCartney, All Rights Reserved.
The excerpt from The Grandmother Cycle is from the opening pages of one of my all-time favorite books, The Stone Diaries by Carol Shields, which explores the life of an “ordinary woman”…
A Swift Current 