I did sing for my Mom

It's wonderful!

Thank you, neat thing. You know somepin? I can't remember whether she liked it or not. She was a rather stoic lady.

Huh. I'd imagine it would have to have an effect, whether it showed or not.

Sorry she's no longer around.

Well, my friend. She lived to be 93 years old, and then just stopped. I think she didn't want to be dependent.

Letty, you were writing right from the heart. I can't help but think your mom must appreciate the love you have expressed in your poem.

I remember my mother somewhat differently. The following is an epitaph I wrote two years after her death in 1988.
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Bits of Dorothy
a Sardonic, but Affectionate Epitaph

Dorothy, my beautiful little mother, wanted to be cremated when she died, her ashes scattered in the mountains she so loved outside Tucson, Arizona.

I did as she asked. Two weeks after her cremation, a box came in the mail, Dorothy's ashes contained in a nondescriptive plastic bag. Oh no, I thought, this will never do for Dorothy. I quickly went to the cabinet where antiques are displayed and took out a vase that had belonged to her. To me, it was a Victorian monstrosity, but she had loved its curves and the painting of a couple in period dress adorning the front. Carefully, I emptied the bag of ashes into the vase and placed it back in the cabinet, feeling better about her temporary resting place being something she had loved for its beauty and graceful design.

A year later, I traveled to Tucson, Dorothy back inside a plastic bag, firmly ensconced in my purse. My brothers and I drove up to the Catalina Mountains to one of her favorite spots, with a broad view of the city below. As we watched her ashes scatter and dance in the breeze in her beloved mountains, we each shared our memories of her; a beautiful woman, always dressed perfectly, demanding, yet loving and protective. She loved beauty and brought it to our poor little house, working magic with wild flowers and decorative ceramics picked up in Mexico.

We remembered the times when she was like a little tornado, whirling through the house, impatient with everything and everyone, leaving us dizzy and directionless. She somehow had the ability to move so quickly that it felt as if the breath had been sucked from our bodies, a bit like an angry little Tinkerbell.

As I was unpacking after flying back to Connecticut, I noticed the plastic bag. It still had a few ashes inside, residue, small bits of Dorothy. Back to the vase, tapping the last of the ashes into what would now be her final resting place, I couldn't help twirling the vase a couple of times; a feeble attempt to give Dorothy the experience of spinning in her grave. It was oddly satisfying.

Now Dorothy is blowing free in the mountains of Arizona and resting comfortably in her favorite vase. Only a few bits of Dorothy are in the vase, but, after all, little bits of Dorothy go a long way.

Bits of Dorothy--that caught my eye, Diane. I suppose that we tend to idolize people after they have gone, do we not? Well, you have been true to your Mom. Interesting that her name should be Dorothy and that she is still being swept up in a whirl wind.

Thank you, my friend, for glorifying that rather smaltzy song.

Very Nice!


Message for MOM