A tough few days ...

Mom and her sons, 1950?

... in the near future. Soon, we'll be heading to Massachusetts for the memorial service for my mom, who passed away in her 99th year on March 10. She had been in a long, slow decline, but one quality she held onto until virtually the very end was her sense of humor. She could laugh at the world, laugh at us, laugh at herself. It was a startling trait--a gift, really--one that I'm fairly certain that I won't share when it's my turn to deal with the dying of the light. I--as per the Dylan Thomas poem--will rage, rage ...

I've seen a copy of the service, and it's going to be emotional. Her three sons will speak--as will Joyce. (And whoever else wants to.) Her three grandchildren--Steve, Rick, Bella--will do the readings. And the hymns will dissolve me. They were her favorites. Oh, and leading off? "O God, Our Help in Ages Past," a hymn we've sung at every family funeral for as long as I can remember. If I make it through three syllables I'll be fortunate. (Here's a link to it.)

At Mom's wish, her remains were cremated, and there will be a simple family graveside service for that in the morning--then to St. Stephens Episcopal in Pittsfield, Mass., where she belonged, where she served. Poet Richard Wilbur attended there. So did Melville--very reluctantly so. I wish they were around to sing Mom's praises. One feels ... inadequate at such times.

Afterward--assuming we haven't all dissolved into salt water--there will be a dinner. And we will head back home the following morning.

One good thing about all of this? Our son, Steve, will be traveling with us. And, of course, we'll see family, friends ...

When I get back, I'll post here the remarks I made during the service.

Meanwhile, it's been impossible to keep Mom from inhabiting most of my conscious hours. I'm not complaining. After all--to veer into ClicheLand--I wouldn't be typing these words without ... you know.

And she truly was a wonder--in so many ways. Brilliant, soft-spoken, determined. A gifted educator. Writer (we both would publish pieces in the English Journal, the official organ of the National Council of Teachers of English--that was a thrill for me). Devoted wife of sixty years. A mother who supported the interests of all three of her very different sons. Grandmother. Great-grandmother. And on and on.

And I guess I'll end with this: She was unique. Sure, I met people who shared some of her interests and talents--but no one, ever, who embodied them all--and so gracefully--as she.

Mom & her sons, 2017