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Bohemian Rhapsody, Featured

Is There Email After Death?

34 Written by: | Wednesday, Oct 22, 2014 8:00am

jane and hy

Jane and Hy

 

For Jen Michalski

Dear Mom,

As it has been six and a half years since we last spoke, we really have a lot to talk about. Marriages, births, deaths, graduations, all sorts of good news and bad. Your little namesake started high school in September, and just a couple of weeks ago, your pal Leon Katz died. I so wanted to call you to discuss it, to reminisce about the old days, the old crowd, Jane and Hy, Diane and Leon, Nancy and Caesar, Lois and Emmett. Maybe you would have told me things I couldn’t have known as a child. I would love some fifty-year-old gossip.

The past is getting more and more fragile, as is your sister Joan. She’s the one who called to tell me about Leon. She was a little stunned by how quickly we could find his obituary from Asbury Park Press on the Internet. It was sweet to read it, reminding me of his carpet store, his pedal boat ride at the boardwalk, his voice and his menschy face, the curly hair, the nose, the rectangular glasses, he and Daddy raising money to build the JCC in Deal.

Meanwhile the future shows up hot and solid every minute, like the fancy apartment your grandson just bought in Boston.

I tried to call Diane, but I got her machine. Another voice of my childhood. All your friends are locked up in my head somewhere, as if at a cocktail party in a hotel room on a floor where the elevator doesn’t stop anymore. Shirley Vegosen, Dutch Unterberg, Rainee Weinstein, Morty Silver.

Down in the lobby everyone is Taylor or Tyler or Emma.

Here’s a little tidbit we could really gnash our teeth over. One of the kids ran into an old frenemy of yours in the city a while back. She assayed a rather shaky conversational gambit, trying to bond with him over the proposition that the reason my sister and I turned out so badly was that you were too busy playing golf to raise us. Oh my God! I screamed. At least I could call Nancy to laugh about this.

Her reaction was, How did she know?

Every time a friend of mine loses her mother (one just has), I think, welcome to the club, you poor thing. Welcome to the sad, bad club you can never get out of. No one is exaggerating when they say they miss their mother every day of their life. Even if, like me, they moved away from home at seventeen. Your mother is there when she is not there, and this continues after her death, but without the phone calls, the pride, the worry, the attentive audience for details that interest no one else. I think of my own kids having to join this terrible club one day and I hate it.

So many of your things have merged into my things – a bottle of Perry Ellis perfume, the thin-lipped coffee cup you preferred, a rhinestone dragonfly lapel pin, which for some reason is in the cup holder in my car. Your navy and camel geometric rug is on my floor under a glass table. I thought I would never have a glass table, or a biweekly cleaning lady. I have a photos of you all over the house and a laminated clipping from the New York Times propped up in the kitchen. JANE FISCH ENGAGED TO MARINE SERGEANT. I often actually kiss them when I when I walk by.

Meanwhile, I see your pale, poochy tummy several times a day, because I have that, too. All I need is a couple dozen pairs of those white nylon waist-high undies you had a drawerful of and the picture would be complete. What was it with those awful things? Yet I too wear the underwear of my youth, sturdy cotton bikinis, no newfangled boy shorts or lacy thongs for me.

Lately I have been trying to write a novel, and my main character has a mom who is a lot like you. Her name is Mona Greengrass and I greatly enjoy writing her dialogue and imagining her golf games and trips to Florida. But Mona Greengrass can’t tell me one more time the story of how you met my father, and when someone asks how the heck did two kids from New Jersey end up at Indiana University in 1947, I have no idea.

In my story, Mona Greengrass lives right next door to her daughter. She is in her sixties and has a snazzy boyfriend, as you should have had … oh, dear, remember Ceddie Nussbaum? I think about what it was like for you, being single for 25 years after Daddy died, and this is another thing I would like to discuss, since I looks like I might be getting that, too, along with the tummy and the ridged fingernails.

Even current events seem to lack something without knowing your take on them. Would you be concerned that the Ebola virus was on its way to the Jersey shore, or would you be sure we would all be fine, or, most likely, would you be most concerned with the effect on the Dow? I won’t even tell you about gas prices, or the Middle East, or the very questionable way Joan Rivers died.

Oh, Mom. That is the silent password of the bad club, the simple phrase we never get to say.

Oh, Mom.

 

  • Miss Celie

    This is wonderful. I lost my mom last year and just yesterday had a knee-jerk ‘I should call my mom to tell her about this’ moment. Beautiful.

  • Lisa Simeone

    Lovely tribute, Marion.

  • Molly

    Some teary eyes here! Lovely.

  • Jacki

    Potent Marion. You never, ever disappoint.

  • Nancy

    Oh Mommy. Oh Daddy.

  • Lindsey Lane

    Oh Marion….So beautiful.

  • peg rosen

    so beautiful.

  • Dylan Landis

    Just gorgeous. Oh, Marion, indeed.

  • Linda

    Thank you for this. Today is the one-year anniversary of my mom’s death. I had a peremptory meltdown last week, so today your column just makes me wistful.

  • ellen wallenstein

    Great piece as usual Marion! My dad is gone 18 years; my (Very Difficult) Mom just turned 90 this month. We went to celebrate; she had a great time (we did not.) This piece reminds me how much i will miss her later on. Thanks.

  • Leslie Fuquinay Miller

    Made me cry. Goes for some dads, too. Mine.

  • pommefrites

    Love your work; thank you! I have all of your books and reread them. Especially fond of Lunchbox Chronicles. 😉

  • Suzy Fisch

    So real, so touching ! I loved Jane and Hy and so did Bruce ! Very moving !

  • Merrily Porter

    Marion — how perfectly you express that loss. It’s the same, even after 41 years.

  • cija jefferson

    Vivid lovely piece. I especially dig the letter format.

    My favorite moment: ” All your friends are locked up in my head somewhere, as if at a cocktail party in a hotel room on a floor where the elevator doesn’t stop anymore. Shirley Vegosen, Dutch Unterberg, Rainee Weinstein, Morty Silver.

    Down in the lobby everyone is Taylor or Tyler or Emma.”

  • ohnojojo8

    I just adore this. I laughed, I cried…..mostly I just still miss her after 13 years. Thanks for another wonderful column!

  • Kristy

    This is tearfully beautiful Marion. I’m not certain what I believe when it comes to life after death… I have some endearing viewpoints… but I only wish that this and every message that you utter into the cosmos, finds it’s way to your mother. I know how much you miss her. Here’s a fact, this column makes a mother proud of her children.

  • bff

    Immediately called my mom.

  • Shirley J. Brewer

    Wonderful and rich, Marion. I lost my Mom five years ago, and my Annapolis Poetry Mom a week ago. Glad for poetry as a way to express memories and feelings. And your essay did it for me, too.

  • c r price

    As the newly orphaned friend above…thanks for a moving tribute not only to lovely Jane but to all Mums…today is 3 months exactly since Mum left the planet and I want her back.

    • Mikey

      I’ve been searching for a piece to articulate the loss of my mom and finally I have found it. Thank you! Thank you! This article will be a piece I keep and share with the others I love who sadly join ‘the club.’

  • Susie Fisch

    Dear Marion,

    Now, I just want to call my mother to read your wonderful piece to her.

    She would have adored it and then she would have told me so many stories that would have related to what you wrote since she certainly knew everyone you mentioned.

    It surely is not the club in which I wanted to be a member.

    I am glad that you added the photo as it also recalls so many marvelous souvenirs of all of our family’s history.

    I could go on, but I will conclude with a thank you for taking me down memory lane with tears, but also, with lots of smiles and laughs.

    Love, Susie

  • deb doerfer

    Thanks for the story, my mom is 83 and still “going up the road” to gamble in Delaware. She does not like the machines in the 2 new casinos in Baltimore, so picky. But when she goes I will miss our lives together, so many stories and good times.

  • Naomi Shihab Nye

    You are simply the most brilliant writer I will ever know. Love you, Marion. And loved your mom too. My dad talked back to me out of the air the other day on the 7th anniversary of his death. It was so startling, so HIM. (Remember, 7 years ago, when you told me we’d keep having a relationship, just differently?) So much comfort and so true. He said, Just have fun, darling. Just have fun everywhere you go.

  • Marilyn

    You are always the best Marion!! I’m wiping tears from my eyes!
    Love you, Marilyn

  • Ruth Schachter

    So poignant – so right on.

  • Judy Perry

    My sweet Millie B wouldn’t haven’t known what E mail was. After all, it has been thirty plus years. But I can identify with every word in this posting. I miss her every day. Oh, Mom.

  • Patti

    Yesterday was the end of year 1. fabulous. so so so so so true. thank you, Patti in Baltimore- find me, CITYPEEK Patti xo

  • Peter Kopelson

    “No one is exaggerating when they say they miss their mother every day of their life.” This is my favorite line in your very touching, heartfelt piece. Because no one knows this is true until it actually happens.

    I wear my mother’s engagement ring around my neck.

    It’s been 39 years since my mother died. I was 12. I continue to think of her every day of my life.

    Peter

  • Anne Amoury

    I never realized how much I missed my mom until reading this piece. What I wouldn’t give for one more phone call, one more routine accounting of her day, one more atta girl. Thank you for touching a tender part of me I’d forgotten existed.



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