This writer of this post is not the usual author, obviously; this is is her husband. Hopefully no one who reads this will consider my usurpation of this page for a day as a detraction of her posts, which I cherish; rather I hope you read it with its real intent: to describe my love for my wife and my own mother on this holiday.
And no, this is not a poem; however, the verbiage here will seem somewhat over-done, as is my wont and the nature of an ode. Such rhetoric is used as a device to attempt to mask emotions I pretend not to have, but which do in fact overcome me from time to time.
This is the first Mother's Day without my mother, who passed away last July. I do not speak of this event to many people; and I share my feelings on this event, or my feelings about my wife, to even fewer people--maybe a handful. I do not pretend that my sorrow at my mother's passing is more than others in similar situations; I am fully aware that many suffer the same pangs and travails of me and my family. I merely enunciate my surprise at how this day has slouched slyly toward me and how sadly it is that this note is all I can present to far more deserving women.
Written history will likely never have in its tomes a story about my mother or my wife. Neither of these wonderful women live or lived in the spotlight; neither attained a worldly view of high office, at least yet; neither have made a major splash in the pond of newspapers or gossip columns, at least yet; and luckily neither have been the butt of jokes or malevolence of a world that seeks to debase or degrade remarkable people. (I caveat with "at least yet" because, while I doubt my wife will ever be in a gossip column, I cannot say with all certainty that she will not attain high office or find her name in the newspapers: she is remarkable in every way.)
I state the above only to point out that while the ripples of the lives of my mother and my wife may not be longitudinally-long, ocean-stretching waves, their ripples surely have impacts wherever they went or will go, in this life and the next.
My mother. She was as strong a personality as one will ever meet. She was, by her nature, the hub of our family: the rest of us were spokes that shot out from her whims, wants, and needs. This is not written in regret or disrespect: our family revolved around my mother, plain and simple. If someone were to ask if I ever met someone who moved mountains, metaphorically, then I would point to my mother. She created magic wherever she went: things happened that no one had ever seen or done before when with my mother; people were changed forever by her ideas and notions; and no one was ever the same once my mother's influence, indulgence, or ire was directed at them. No, she was not a harsh woman; but my mother would not allow anyone to speak ill or harm her family--including extended family and friends that were "adopted" into the family--and sometimes that ire was directed inwardly at a son or daughter who caused or could have caused the harm. She was firm and immovable when required; she was patient when necessary; and she was diligent, caring, and loyal always. Maybe that was why her many illnesses in the decade preceding her passing caused the rest of our family such difficulty: we became hikers without a compass and boats with no sails. No, we did not fall apart: if anything my mother had prepared us for such nuisances of life as she taught us perseverance, wisdom, and independence of thought. So new identities were formed, and in some ways mourned, for even though these new identities garnered other centers and other beautiful, celestial priorities, it was never quite the same without our mother as the center. I think all of my family felt the final defenestration of her as center in the last few years: there was something intangible about illness and probable too-early earthly departure that was constantly stripping away my mother's physical effervescence and ebullience; and we could not be her center, nor re-create the old wheel; all we could do was help her fight with any power she could muster. She lost her fight last July. There was no moment of silence anywhere. The world kept rotating; the stars kept shining; the devil smiled that such a person as my mother was no longer inhibiting his work; and a few people out of billions mourned. I know that those of us that mourn think of her often: when we listen to music, look at art, go to church, kiss our children good night, stare at the stars, watch the spring flowers bloom--anything really, can cause us to miss her. She really was a spectacular woman. I regret every day that I could not be there when she died. Sure, I knew every goodbye could be the last; but, I had the opportunity to be there and a bad reaction to flying medication kept me from her side--a silly human frailty caused me to miss telling my dear mother all the things she meant to me. Now, I can only hold them in my heart and, in quiet times, ensconce myself there for a few moments to touch those hidden memories. On this Mother's Day, probably more than any that follow, I feel a profound loss. I miss her deeply. I loved my mother and am inspired by her memory and life.
My wife. As difficult as the last paragraph was to write, to figure out how to say what the living embodiment of all that is good and wholesome in my life is has proven epically (not a typo for "especially" though equally apropos) hard. I sometimes wonder what others think of her. I hear comments from friends about how wonderful she is; how perfect she seems; how hard it must be to raise this harem of hooligans (myself included, apparently). To those people I smile and say I know--and then think to myself, I do know that stuff, right? I say prayers grateful for her, but what am I grateful for? I recently read a poem about why is it that great women marry impossible men and it made me think that I am, with some chagrin, one of those impossible men. I rarely laud her merits aloud or exult my love for her to others, and even more rarely do I dote upon her. How grateful can I be then? I cause more consternation than I avert, and I undo some of the great instincts she has instilled in our children (What? McNuggets are not healthy?). So, at this writing I had to inquire within my rusty soul, what makes her so emphatically, irretractably, unequivocally, and assuredly, the finest person I know? My answer follows: She is an element of heaven sent to the world to demonstrate what it means to be a better person--in every way. She is intelligent beyond what most people probably comprehend; she has wisdom that rivals most of those that I meet; she is compassionate on those that the world tosses aside; she gives with no desire for fame; she dotes on her children with a transfixing love that envelopes them with every hug and kiss; she reads voraciously; to her, change is a requirement of life, not something from which to hide; she works out when tired; she eats healthily when no one is watching; she prays with fervency as if she literally knows the Father to whom she speaks; she loves and requires no love in return; she would give up happiness if it meant someone else could be happy; she inspires by both act and speech; she emotes and is not ashamed; she keeps and cherishes her friends; she can overcome anything through by attrition using her good attitude and kind heart; she is patient without overindulgence; she is religious without over-piety; she has her priorities always in place; and she loves me. And, there, for now, is where I stop. At some point, she decided to let me be a daily participant with her; and that is the completion of this circular logic today: because it is for her love and opportunity to go through life with her that I am ever grateful. My wife is a magnificent paragon of what a person ought to be and a light to guide many of us through darkness. For those who would rage against that dying of the light in this world, I say that my wife's example could be a beacon or ensign to use in the darkest days. Whatever she thinks of this corruption of her blog, I can, for this brief moment, aver that she is my best and closest friend. She is my love and adoration. She is the personification of all things that are beautiful on this earth. I may not always deserve her, but I shall never stop striving to be worthy of her love or gifts.
