Forever changed

 I look in my mirror now and I see my mom's face. Sometimes I just stare intently and say to that image staring back at me, "Hello, Fannie." Mom used to wear her hair pulled up on the sides with a comb and she made a French twist with the long hair at the back. That was before the name  'French Twist' was even applied to that style! And now I realize I have been using combs in my hair almost like she did, sweeping up my hair on each side.  I don't do the French Twist. I just let the hair hang down. It's now half way down my back. And my mom had the most gorgeous skin. She never needed makeup. She had what she described as having "high color", pink cheeks so she never needed to use blush. I didn't inherit her color, I got my dad's. But I do see her beautiful face staring back at me and silently thank her for giving me a bit of her beauty. 

My hair is all white now, a color Warren never saw me with. I colored my hair most of my adult life, first a dark brown and then I tried a variety of colors. I didn't look great as a blonde or with black hair! But then I went to auburn because I had that color naturally, as did my mother. So, for decades of our marriage I was a "redhead," a color that seemed so natural on me and one that Warren just loved. 

After my beloved Warren died, I stopped coloring my hair. There seemed to be no reason to keep it up and the white had started to creep in. It wasn't long before my whole head of hair turned white, just a matter  of a few months really. That seemed to be record time to me.

So, getting back to the mirror..........  While I stare, I wonder if Warren would love this color on me. Of course he would. He always told me I looked great no matter what I wore or how I looked. He always made me feel beautiful. He always made me feel loved and he always made me feel cherished.

And now that he's not here with me, I talk to his photos, I talk to him while looking in the mirror, I talk to him while staring at the lone star in the sky above my patio and I talk to him in my head. I have been forever changed......... in the way I look, in the way I think, in the way I live. It is such a different life but one thing has remained constant....... the love he showered on me for so many decades still lives within my heart and the love I still feel for him has not diminished at all. We will forever be that loving 'couple' who enjoyed a fifty-five year love affair. And to me, that love affair will continue til the end of time. That will never change.

Copyright © 2020. Reisa Sterling Miller. All Rights Reserved.

Mother's Day

The last time our 3 year old son saw my mother was on Mother's Day, May 12, 1974.  It was in the hospital as she was struggling to recover from a variety of medical problems.  But on this day, she was able to walk to a visiting area where we all sat down to visit.  She was surrounded by everyone in our respective families who loved her.  The picture of that day is indelibly etched in my mind's eye and I treasure it.  I was pregnant with our second son at the time and I was so grateful that she knew another grandchild was on his way.  She passed away on May 22nd, just eighteen days after my dad passed away, on May 4th.

So, Mother's Day presents conflicting emotions in me.  It was difficult for years after her passing.  But after a while, the difficulty gave way to enormous joy because I was the mother of two extraordinary sons and my happiness and pride knew no bounds.

Mothers can be incredible people.  But I don't think it's necessary to set aside a day to celebrate them.  It has been reduced to such a commercial holiday, driven by the flowers and gift industries to generate  enormous amounts of money for these companies, a whole load of sadness for those who have lost their moms (or other special women who have made a wonderful impact on their lives), and a huge amount of guilt for those whose mothers didn't live up to the sappy verses on Mother's Day cards.

My sons give me love and tremendous joy all year round.  I don't need a special day to feel what they so freely give all the time.  Having said all this, I want to share, again, a blog I wrote about my mother on October 6, 2009.  It is a love story of sorts.  And it's one way I like to remember my mother, of blessed memory.

http://www.lifeismorethansoundbites.blogspot.com/search/label/Tikkun%20Olam

or

http://bit.ly/1ivKemh

AN EXAMPLE OF "TIKKUN OLAM"

My mother, of blessed memory, was one of those people who "made do" with very little. But she was incredibly intelligent and imbued with a deep sense of "Tikkun Olam," healing the world.

For as long as I can remember, she was always involved with organizations which helped people. When I was a child, I remember our doorbell ringing, some men in black coats and hats standing downstairs and mom going down to talk to them. Subsequently, she was on the phone for what seemed like hours, making many calls and finally, after the last call, hanging up with a satisfied look on her face. When I asked what that was all about, she merely shrugged and said that she was able to "get something for someone." This happened many, many times.

As the years went by, I noticed that she would be on the telephone asking about furniture, groceries, monetary help, rental apartments, jobs, etc. and where she could acquire such items. What I didn't know and learned about or figured out many years later was that my mother was a one-woman resettlement agent for refugees from the Holocaust. And she did this on her own, utilizing the connections she had made through her volunteer work. No one could say "no" to Fannie. It was years later that it dawned on me that neighbors who had lived downstairs from us were survivors. She and they never said a word.

As a teenager (yes, before cell phones) I could not talk on the phone at night because she was always on it, listening for hours to tales of woe from her friends. And she would dispense advice much like the Dear Abby columns of today. And it wasn't always advice. Sometimes she would be able to find money or groceries for them to tide them over when things were tough. So many times she would say to me, with that twinkle in her eye, "If I hung out a shingle I could make a lot of money doing this."

All these things she did for others were, for the most part, done anonymously. She vigorously guarded her privacy and would not allow her name to be used in connection with any of these "good works." However, one day a certificate of appreciation came in the mail from a prominent Boston Jewish organization with her name emblazoned on it, along with a wonderful letter praising her. As she read the letter, I saw my mother gasp and her face blushed into a deep red. She was totally embarrassed by the recognition. She had been invited to the luncheon where these were given out and she had elected not to go and be publicly acknowledged.

While doing all these things, she worked full time as an Executive Secretary at our local Jewish Community Center, a non-profit offering no benefits (except that the building was right next door to our house) and not a lot of money. She was friends with everyone who walked through those doors, adults and children alike.

My mother never talked to me about the work she did. I just observed her actions and only really understood the enormity of her wonderful work long after I left the house. She is an inspiration to me and is the exemplar of the spirit of Maimonides' eighth degree of tzedakah.