A Brief Story about Mom

EVERY DAY I THINK OF HER.

It's been over three years since her passing, but it seems like yesterday. Literally and figuratively. Just when you think you're over it and ready to resume life, you have a weird dream --involving mom--and you end up waking up and feeling miserable. Mom would tell me to grow up and move forward but I would quickly tell her that's easier said than done.

SHE RAISED ME alone, without a supporting spouse. All alone by herself. With very little money. She comforted me in times of despair when there was no one around. She always told me that no matter what, not to worry about anything, because if I had some crisis (and I did, multiple times), then she'd be there. And she was, always with, no pre-conditions. Like all good mothers, she knew the art of comforting. She understood it all without any drama, she'd just be there. Every day. Every moment. She was my best friend, no matter what, for better or worse. Which is why it's so darn lousy she's gone but I know she's somewhere listening, probably sipping her coffee like no one else. Oh my god, my mom and her coffee sips.

I would pick her up from the doctor and we'd go over to the Butter Cup in Jack London Square. She'd order her eggs and had the coffee. We'd rejoice because Dr. Caldwell, her heart doctor, said mom was A-Ok and good to go. It was a monthly ritual. My breakfast with mom. Until the days grew older and mom began not to feel so good. It's called life.

I knew it was bound to happen any day but I thought mom was good for another few years. She was in fairly robust health for the most part until fate showed its ugly way. But that's life. Even for tough Brooklyn, Jewish mothers like my mom.

I hesitated to write this. I like to stick to media. It's what you come here for and I hope I don't lose you with this momentary bit of selfishness but I know lots of you like it when I've written about my mother. So today, I cried a little more because a week after the High Holidays, I came across an old card with her name (Anne Landau) on it and it shook me up. My usual misha-goss as my mother would put it, settled in. I don't know yet, even after three years, how to deal with it. I know for many of you, it's the same feeling.

As long as I write this blog, I will dedicate it to my mom, Mrs. Lieberman, who was always there. Thick and thin. And I miss her so much.