It’s May, it’s Mother’s Day, yet for some reason my mind is rewinding to Christmas 2003. The first Christmas after my separation from Ana’s dad. The first Christmas Mom and I had made lutefisk and lefse. And my Mom’s last Christmas.
I had no idea of this at the time. But something else seemed to know.
We were preparing for Christmas Eve services at Mom’s church. I snapped photos of my 5-year-old Ana, proudly attired in the gorgeous Christmas dress my Mom had given her. I tried to get Mom to pose with Ana, but Mom, every inch the church lady and a Virgo to boot, had not dressed yet, so she wasn’t ready for her “close up.” She hung back in an adjacent room watching us take pictures.
When Mom died suddenly two months later, decades of regrets large and small poured through me, like a river hurling itself down a mountain during spring thaw. Even picking up my camera again, still full of film from that Christmas Eve — the last roll of film with any chance of her being in the photos — squeezed on my heart like a sponge full of lemon juice.
You know how grief is. Grief takes you down a list of last chances like a ladder into hell. Couldn’t I have just cajoled Mom out of that Virgo vanity and encouraged her to be in a couple of those photos? We would never have another Christmas. I’d never see her again. I almost didn’t have the heart to get the film processed. Then I did.
By some weird miracle, that photo session DID include Mom.
In one Christmas Eve photo, Ana stood by the table in the foyer dressed in her finery. Above that table on the wall hung a large gold mirror Mom had given us. In that mirror stood Mom, beaming at Ana. A truth struck me bone deep: While she was still alive, Mom was showing me that she may not be in the room, but she’d still be in the picture. There she was, there she would always be — in the mirror.
As I retell this, I can feel my Mom watching from the mirror, smiling her smile, still dressed in that rose-colored sweatshirt that wasn’t good enough for church. But it was good enough for love.
You can say this is wishful thinking. But when I first noticed Mom in the mirror, I felt her. I had to laugh in spite of my grief, at the genius set up of this photo. I knew it in my bones what this was showing me. Twenty years later, I know it in spades. Life is ceaselessly mirroring us — mothering us — showing us who we are. If we have the eyes to see, we may come to realize that like a good mother, the mirror of life is the one thing that will never leave us. It see us, holds us, and loves us that much.
This is just one of so many weird and wondrous stories that happened around Mom’s “passing.” I would love to hear yours!
The morning of my mother’s funeral, I reached into the pocket of the handbag I brought. (I don’t usually carry a bag, but I thought I might need it in NY.) I don’t remember what I was looking for, but what I pulled out was an envelope that said “Last Words June Postrel 2014.” Now, that was dated 6 years prior to her death and I had no idea she ever wrote it, let alone how it got into my bag.
Inside was a simple, one page sentiment: “You’re all here today to say goodbye to me for the last time. Know that I had a wonderful life — devoted parents, wonderful in-laws, Leo, the love of my life, and four outstanding children, loving grandchildren, and loyal friends. My wish is that you tell stories about times we shared, some fun, some trying, but all of us having each other to share with. Stay close and remember my favorite saying: “You know what? I love you.”
I must have shoved it in my bag when I was emptying out her apartment the month prior in a rush, but had no recollection of seeing it before the day of her funeral. It couldn’t have been a more Mary’s Believe It or Not moment!
I love your mom in the mirror—I love your take-away, that she’s always there 🙏