Tag: mom

island life, mom and dad, and new york

I suppose that I will always be – if not always feel like – a New Yorker. My hometown of East Meadow was right next door to famous Levittown. After WWII, returning vets heard the siren songs of suburban living, and Levittown sang loud and proud.

Not quite sure where East Meadow fits in the swift rise of suburbia, but it mostly likely knew the songs that were in the air.

In 1964, Wilfredo and Carmen purchased a small, two story Cape Cod style home on a corner lot in East Meadow. I’ve always loved the name of our street: Wilson Lane. It has a noble sound befitting my mom and dad. They were poor, could hardly speak English, and were uneducated. Their royalty was in their wisdom, their tenacity and, in full measure, their love.

And you would need love to survive the “dawning of the age of Aquarius” in East Meadow, located in Nassau County, on Long Island, in New York State. Ironically, we were a little island of Puerto Ricans in an ocean of Italian, Irish, and Jewish families. And it was wonderful. I mean, where else could you go to school with Carmine Paradisio – is that a name, or is that a name?! – and then, as a high school student, sing in musicals with members of the local Jewish synagogue. I also grew up with the long, cold shadows of the normalization of hatred and racism.

And about that, I will say this: it wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized that it was difficult for my mom and my dad to live in that white suburban community. I’ll spare you the details of some of the stories, suffice it to say that, by some, we were not welcome. So much so that messages in the form of dog excrement being tossed in the yard was just one of the ways the turbulence of the times reached our corner lot. My mom and dad were silent about it, as far as I can recall. To this day, I truly believe they were teaching me important lessons. Don’t be a person who hates, even if you feel you have every reason to hate. Don’t order your life around those who have struggles in their hearts. Be a person of peace on a small little island in East Meadow in an ocean of turmoil. Peace would also need to make room for suffering, loss, and sorrow on that island. As much as we all want to live and experience life, this life can take so much from us that, even if we are still breathing, it feels like there is no reason to.

Rosalito was her name. Their firstborn. She lived for a few days. My mom mourned her until her last day. This event was the seed of much of my formation, but that’s a story that continues to unfold.

Which, of course, brings us to the present. My mom passed away in 2023 at the age of 97. She passed in the safety of her corner house… her little island in an ocean of love: my dad.

He still lives in that house and, even though my story is being told on the backlot of the Midwest, far from the Atlantic shore I love – more on that later – I have been returning home to be with my family almost every year for…well… 39+ years. And, following the well worn path of my childhood, those visits often included an eastbound trip on the Southern State Parkway to visit Rosalito.

I find that some childhood memories can show up for a visit in vivid, 3-D, surround sound. I find myself taking in the mysteriously beautiful sound of crunching autumn leaves as we brush them from around her tombstone. I can still feel my body sigh in relief as the cold water from a nearby hose washed away the unbearable heat and humidity of a Long Island summer. I can still smell the fresh, winter air as I huddled in my coat while my mom and dad whispered prayers and shed their tears. Home, family, and our little island in East Meadow will, for me, always be associated with death. And that is not a bad thing. It just is.

On this particular visit, a rainy, cold, late May welcomed me back home. Thankfully, a summer like early June won a toss of weather fronts with May. I set aside more than two weeks to be with my dad. We spent a day heading out to the southern tip of Long Island to greet the lighthouse at Montauk Point. A 3 ½ order lens (it sounds like I know what I’m talking about, but I don’t) built in 1902 was recently restored to the tippy top of that lighthouse. In a culture that places unnecessary value on new and improved, it’s comforting to realize that old and traditional can still guide and lead sojourners to light and safety.
Of course, we visited Rosalito and Carmen. My mom was finally resting with my sister. We cleared out weeds, took out the artificial flowers that signaled care and love all through winter, and planted fresh, impossibly red flowers. If my mom could speak, she would tell me what the flowers were.

Though uneducated, she was a brilliant “botanist” who could revive any withered leaf, twig or petal and, as if she named each and every one herself, would tell you the name of just about any flower. God created a unique kind of nurturing spirit within her and I think losing her first child only deepened her longing to give and sustain life. Our house was a greenhouse. Green, colorful life was everywhere. And now, my dad made sure that color and life adorned the resting place of his little girl and his bride of over 60 years.

Any pilgrimage back east must include multiple mini-pilgrimages to the southern shores of Long Island. Specifically, Jones Beach.

Like the faithful ostinato from Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue in C minor, this State Park has always been a part of me. Whether it’s a frigid, windswept winter seascape, or the end of a summer day showing off with a dazzling display of clouds and shafts of light shooting into space, or the slow motion blending and mixing of sunrise colors that Crayola never dreamed existed, this shore has been a place for reflection, prayer, worship and peace. And, every now and then, I hear and see the rocks cry out and tell of a Savior alive in this world.

I enjoyed a mid-morning stroll with my dad along the 2-mile long boardwalk. I marvel at his endurance and determination as he struggles to maintain balance and manage pain while he walks on his two artificial knees.

During a quiet, pre-dawn stroll on the shore, as the sun began to work on its morning art project, I am trying to figure out a way to take the colors right out of the sky and put them in my backpack.

I am grateful for my family…

for loss and sorrow…

for the Man of Sorrows…

for morning colors, accompanied by salty air…

for lilting, calming ocean waves…

grow and sing and shine

she loved flowers
and it seems
like they loved her too
countless plants
happily shared the rooms
of our home
my mom would call each one
by name
no strange plants in her home

it takes someone special
to see that life thrives
the colorful flowers
the herbs and the spices
the garden outside
was no different
than the garden of our hearts
she tended to each one of us
and we grew in love
and tenderness
because she knew
that all things that are loved
grow and sing and shine
all things loved
grow
and sing
and
shine

you can’t cry all the time

sitting with my mom
the years that surround her are so long
she is reflecting and pondering
telling stories and wondering
and this is what she had to say

— all my siblings have passed away
but you can’t cry all the time
you have to laugh
you have to think
love is so simple
and sometimes you
don’t realize it’s there —

and my dad brings her flowers
the hours of another day
slowly pass away
my dear mom
so far from the world she once knew
i’ll try and remember
to let the tears speak
and the laughter sing
and I’ll wonder and ponder
and try to remember
for my remaining days
to see the love before me
and then give it away

so much love

i suppose
that when
in your 90’s
that the road
behind you
has more to tell
than the road ahead
and instead of the worry
and the hurry
to get
where you thought
you should be
you listen to
that long long road

i hear my mom
as she walks that road
and stops along the way
she pauses and wonders
what can she say
to give thanks to God
for her family
what can she say
to give thanks to God
for all the love
that surrounded
her journey

in one story
she laments her losses
then as the tears are flowing
a moment comes to the surface
and suddenly she laughs
sorrow harmonizes with joy
laughter sings with tragedy
but still
still gives thanks
and on that road
she remembers
all the gifts
without number
that she has shared
with family
with friends

now she’s tired
her most frequent visitor
is pain
here eyes are dim
but her voice
doesn’t wane
as she skips down that road
picking memories
like a beautiful rose
she holds in her hands
the important things
that somehow
we forget
but she knows
and her wisdom falls
like sweet silver snow
on the hearts
of all who listen
bringing light
and it just glistens
in your soul

she recalls the years
with pride
and with deep lament
she speaks
of her mom and dad
her sisters
her brothers
with thankfulness
carried by her tears
she speaks of their love
so
much
love

there is a power
in her spirit
that pays no attention
to her age
or the sheer exhaustion
of each day
her diminished frame
is a sanctuary
of strength
and love

i hope i have passed along
the smallest portion
of her love to my family
for even a fragment
of that love
would fill the world
would flood a soul
would help mend the wounds
we all carry

thank you mom
for speaking truth
for remembering to laugh
for lamenting all the sadness
for all your love
so
much
love

scenes

Scene 1 fades in from black: I’m standing in the doorway of what used to be the bedroom for my two daughters. Eleven months before I said, “Her mother and I do,” at my oldest daughter’s wedding, and like the refrain of a song, I just said the same words at my youngest daughter’s wedding! My oldest son is already married. Three down, one to go. I pull out my phone and capture… this… empty room. I guess I was hoping to capture the conversations, dance parties, tears, Christmas mornings, laughter, prayers… capture all that happened in that room. The phone displays an empty room. But I am filled with gratitude as I remember that grace brought me here and will continue to lead me…home. I am crossing the vast Canyon of Parenthood, which is followed by the great Canyon of Fatherhood and the Canyon of Where Did the Time Go… and I realize that I am at the beginning of that time in my life where I will be remembered a bit less, and less. And that is what will be. And it’s ok. Scene 1 fades to black.

Scene 2 fades in from black. I’m standing in the doorway of what used to be the bedroom for my youngest son. I pull out my phone… you know the rest. Now, the emptiness of the room is a bit more final in my heart. All four of our children (can I still call them children?) are gone. Now I watch our children and their families, and I see them and the 6 little ones that are the new generation in their “rooms” praying, crying, laughing, enjoying dance parties, creating moments to remember and one day say good-bye to… one day let go… one day to try and capture on a phone. And I know that the new generation will forget more than they remember of their papa and nana. And I know that is what must be. And it’s okay. Scene 2 fades to black. One more scene.

Scene 3 fades in from black. I am being held by my mom in an impossibly strong, firm embrace. Impossible because my mom’s 96 year old body appears to be so frail, brittle and fragile. I see her connecting to my dear wife in a hushed conversation filled with memories and love. She can’t really stand up straight anymore. It seems like she is always folding in on herself, like she is ever seeking the fetal position. I tell her, as often as I can, that I love her, and her frail, thin voice tells me the same. My mom is a stranger in this world. She has lived long enough to bury he mom and dad and all of her siblings. The neighborhood is filled with strangers, for all of her friends from the old days have passed as well. She is, in so many ways, alone. Few remember who she is. And as I have had the opportunity to watch her in these late years, I am grateful for all that she has taught me. She has embraced her reality, and it is okay. She has taught me to welcome your emotions and the reality that you are in, but to not let it steal the grace and love that you can, at any moment, give to someone. She is frustrated, but not angry. She is sorrowful, but not bitter. She feels forgotten, but is not resentful. I want so badly to take away all the pain, heartache and struggle that makes up her days and nights. But I can’t. It must be this way. And that is okay. If I could take it away, it would diminish her and also diminish me. It is okay. This scene will fade to black. I am not sure I will be able to navigate that blackness. But, it will be. And that’s okay.

listen

listen
listen
can you hear this mother cry
her daughter is gone
such a sad sad song
she cries
it’s just all wrong

listen
listen
can you hear this daddy cry
he lost his boy
such a sad gray song
he cries
it’s just all wrong

oh great Light
have mercy now
have mercy now
mommy cries
have mercy now
have mercy now
daddy doesn’t know what to do
oh great Light
break through
oh great Light
break through

listen
listen
can you hear
the silence of the children cry
laughter gone
such a sad sad song
the silence cries

listen
listen
can you hear the heartbeat sound
you have life
so lay it down
yes lay it down
all around all around
the world is crying now

oh great Light
have mercy now
have mercy now
mommy cries
have mercy now
have mercy now
daddy doesn’t know what to do
oh great Light
break through

oh great Light
break through

strong servant

there are not enough words
in the world’s languages
to properly honor my mom

today I’ll choose two:

strong servant

rest your eyes on her hands

a remarkable strength lies beneath
their frail appearance

when i greeted her this morning
her embrace was not only filled with love
it was filled with a force
a firmness
a stability
that comes from deep within

i know her heart carries
immeasurable sadness
and a weariness
that age and time have given her

her heart is also filled
with a near perfect combination
of strength of will and resolve
and a seemingly endless
river of love
ever flowing
in service of others
rest your eyes on her hands

hands that have worked so hard
to create a home
to clean and cook
to calm and reprove
– trust me when i tell you they are strong hands –
to hold and release
to serve all who entered her home

but these are just two words
shadows that dimly portray
my dear mom

mom moments

This is my dear mom who is… well, to be polite, she is above 90 years old. We try to get back to Long Island, NY a few times a year to visit with my family. COVID porevented an earlier trip this year and, this time, my wife needed to be at home, so I am here enjoying my parents who still live in the house I grew up in. We hung out on the front porch and just chatted away a few moments together. She carries a weight of sadness for all that she has seen in this world, but at any moment, she can laugh and get me laughing as well! Favorite quote so far: “You have to enjoy your home… when you think about it, for 60 years this home has kept us from getting wet.”

riverside family

riverside family

my mom

my mom

The back story of this photograph: this is my dear mom at her brother’s grave site. He was such a wonderful uncle to me. My mom is the youngest of nine. She has one sister still living. It’s sad for me to see her family and generation pass.