Crying

Last Mothers Day, I once again found myself looking for inspiration to use in creating Mom’s card. She lived alone and other than exercising at the spa in the morning, Mom filled most of her days watching a lot of television. She had switched from having CNN on all day to watching the Turner Classics Network. Recently, she had been effusive about what a wonderful movie “A Streetcar Named Desire” was. When she talked about it, there was a smile on her face and twinkle in her eye. I thought maybe there was something there I could use to make the card because watching that movie had really touched her.

Naturally, the first thing I thought of was the iconic scene where Marlon Brando, in a torn shirt, cries out “Stella” from the street and pretty quickly, I morphed “Stella” into “Momma”. In trying to justify that segue, it occurred to me that Stanley was crying out to his wife in the apartment above much in the same way a child might cry out to his mother if they were separated and he needed her love. Using that tenuous connection and my limited artistic abilities, I created a pretty scary looking Marlon Brando crying out for his Momma in a big word balloon. I added a poem for the inside of the card to help explain the thought behind the image that I worried looked a little strange for a Mothers Day card.

Later that June, Mom died in her sleep. Despite the fact that she was 90 years old, her death was shockingly unexpected. Up until the last time she laid her head on her pillow, Mom was apparently healthy, happy, active and mentally sharp. It was hard to believe that anything had gotten the better of her because she was so strong. I often told her that I thought she would outlive me. When the family gathered at her home that day, we said the good-byes she could no longer hear and kissed the face that could no longer respond with her sweet smile. I had brief fits of crying and shed a few tears but mostly I remember just shaking my head in disbelief.

As with my father and my son before him, it fell on me to prepare and deliver the eulogy at the burial of Mom’s ashes. I didn’t write about how her death effected me or anecdotes about experiences we shared. I focused on her, how she lived, what she accomplished and what was important to her. The morning of the ceremony I rehearsed it a few times on my porch hoping that it would help me develop the strength or emotional callous I needed to get through it without breaking down and losing the ability to speak. I needed that because I knew I was a crier.

I’ve always considered myself a stoic personality. I know how to take things in stride and  keep my emotional equilibrium. When it comes to the death of a loved one, I focus on being thankful for the time we shared. I don’t have much use for dwelling on the negative. Wallowing in grief and regret for what might have been don’t seem to be “productive”. It doesn’t help me get to the happiness I’m always trying to reach. Mom’s favorite story about me was how, at a very young age, I came up to her and complained “I’m not having any fun.” It was a simple story but it seemed to encapsulate the search for happiness that drove me throughout my life.

On the other hand, I know how easily I can cry. For instance, it happens with regularity when I watch CBS Sunday Morning whether it is a sad story or, more often, just something beautiful. Not beautiful in the visual sense, something that is aesthetically pleasing, but the beauty of the human spirit that resonates with my beliefs and values, something that touches my heart by way of my brain. It could be a speech that stirs my pride in my country or seeing the sacrifice someone put in to help other people. It could be the lyric of a song that uncovers a salient truth or the music that takes me back to the purity and freshness with which I experienced it in my youth. Just now, I welled up at the precision solemnity of uniformed South Carolina State Troopers taking down the Confederate battle flag.

The ceremony was at the grave site with a small group of family and friends. Despite the rehearsals, I had a tough time getting through the eulogy. My halting voice would occasionally crack into the high-pitched range that forecasts a downpour. At times, I had to stop and gather myself with a deep, cleansing breath. There were tears but no storm. After struggling to make it to the finish, I felt like much of it had been unintelligible but my family assured me they’d heard it all. It was a beautiful, mild summer day and the sunshine seemed to dry me out. I walked around to hug my brothers and sisters and felt composed again.

Then the attendant directed us to the polished wooden cube that held Mom’s ashes and suggested we might want to touch it, thereby leaving something of ourselves with it, before burial. I hadn’t envisioned this part of the ceremony but, feeling a bit dazed, I followed the line to say a final good bye. When I got there, an involuntary impulse directed me to fall to my knees. My mind was no longer in control of my actions. My body bent over and my head and hands fell on the box. The dam inside me broke and the tears fell in a torrent. I was flooded with a grief I had never experienced before and did not know I was capable of feeling. An anguished cry of “Momma” burst from my throat.