My Mother's Stories

But the ending always comes at last
Endings always come too fast

They come too fast, but they pass too slow
I love you, and that’s all I know

When the singer’s gone,
Let the song go on...

From “All I Know” by Art Garfunkel

I used to sit with my mom on her bed or at the oval kitchen table in the mornings and beg her to tell me stories about what it was like when she was a child.  I'd bring her a cup of freshly brewed coffee(Maxwell House, then, in later years, Zabar's breakfast 

blend) in a brown speckled, ceramic Dansk mug with two teaspoons of sugar and a couple drops of half-n-half. 

I didn't drink coffee, but the stories were my "caffeine".  I lingered on her every word, coaxing more from a dignified woman who would talk about summers on Lake Michigan, extended family relationships or her love of books and classical music  but never, ever about the boys she dated before meeting my father.

 In time, I understood why she refrained from touching that subject. Mom remembered the sad twinges she felt each time my grandmother talked about how she could've married someone else.  Though, I'm sure there were other choices Mom might have made, and

 being human, I imagine she thought of them during difficult times, she never expressed regret about the decisions that brought me into this world.

So, sometimes I ask myself why I'm writing this blog and putting these stories out there. 

Then, I think about how some of these family legends would remain sealed within me. The stories were gifts from my mother, meant to be shared with future generations. 

Last night, I dreamt about my mother. I was in her bedroom, hoping to hear another one of her stories. Her beautiful face appeared outside the window. I couldn't hear what she was saying but I could tell she was encouraging me to continue writing her story....

My mom, Arlene with me in my photo studio, 1995.