Memories

My earliest memory is of my mother.  My mother at this time was 29 years old and was raising 5 kids, ages 1 to 7.  On this particular day, a November afternoon in 1963 my younger brother, sister, and I were watching the television.  Pre-schoolers spending time with Mom. 

My memory starts with me hearing my mother in the kitchen, softly crying.  My brother, sister, and I are in the living room, idly watching the grainy, black and white image on the 12-inch television screen; an image of white horses pulling a carriage holding a flag-draped casket.  

I had no idea, or no comprehension of what it was all about.  But I remember my mother in the kitchen, crying to the image of this death; this end of life. 

And now, as I write this I realize that the earliest memory I have of my mother mirrors the last memory I have of my mother… and tears run rampant. 

My mother died in the fall, an October morning, 48 years later.  We had her service later that week.  I remember thinking they are going to close the casket at 9 PM, time to say goodbye.  As 9 PM approached and passed, I found myself crying, sobbing uncontrollably at the last image of my mother on this earth. 

My first memory of tears.  My last memory of tears. The first of sadness in her life.  The last of the sadness in mine.  

D. 2016