Mater Dolorosa

My mother died 5 years ago today, 15 September. the Feast Day of Our Lady of Sorrows - Mater Dolorosa. And I still miss her every single day.

My mother was kind, generous, loving. Hers was the first hand I ever held, the first shoulders I ever cried on, the first unconditional love I've ever had. Most importantly, she gave me faith and values that I still hold true to this day. Right after I was born, she made my father count my fingers and toes - and simply because I have 10 of each - I was perfect as perfect could be in their eyes.

Hers were the first arms that held me tight, the first heartbeat I shared, the first lips that showered me with kisses even (and especially) when I didn't want to be kissed in front of my friends. Hers were the first eyes which stared at me while I slept, the first ears which heard my cry- sometimes even when it was all but a whimper. I learned to laugh with her, I learned to love from her, I learned to trust because of her. And as I grew older, she was there to cry with me: the first time I lost a fight, the first time I fell in love and got my heart broken, the first time I realized that the world is not this big playground. She cheered me during my baseball games, she nursed my bruised knees and broken bones, she and my dad stayed up when I was sick. When I left home (for boarding school and then college), my dad said mom would go into my room during the first month, lock the door, and cry. But she was proud as proud could be when I graduated with honors (despite the grim prognostications of the teachers and nuns and priests about my youthful indiscretions and doubtful future as a productive member of society).

My mother was fiercely Catholic - something Her Hotness, Delia Gallagher - can probably relate to. Mom went to mass every day, she said the rosary every night, she never went to church wearing shorts or sandals or short skirts, she counted our parish priests among her closest friends. She had a statue of Our Lady in their bedroom, and every night before she went to bed, she clasped the statue's cold, wooden hands until the paint wore off. When I was little and before my baby sister was born, she used to take me with her everywhere, mostly we went to mass. (I'm still convinced she secretly hoped one of her kids would become a priest or a nun...) It is only fitting that my mother died on one of Our Lady's feast days.

Most importantly, she let me be. She knew when to let go, she knew when to stand back and wait for me to succeed and fail and win and lose (and get lost in the process) and find my own way in this world. And all those times when life just seemed unbearable, I knew I could always look behind and find mom there picking up the pieces of my broken dreams.

She was my dad's first and only girlfriend and they were married for over 40 years, and he misses her so much. They held hands as they walked, they had their little fights, he sang to her as she was dying (and while his own heart was breaking into a million pieces). Theirs was a simple love story, but a love story nonetheless.

I love you, mom. And I will miss you until the day I die.

PS - Mom, the picture above is Delia, but I'm sure you know that already. Isn't she gorgeous? I know you're busy and probably tired keeping me from trouble and a premature death, but can you please once in a while watch over her too? Thanks, mom!