tomorrow marks three decades without my mom
...and Santa Rosa plum season
That is 10,957.28 days since my mother died. Suddenly and without warning. At 50. Believe it or not, I am more sad today than I have been in a very long time. I will always miss things about her, but suddenly I miss more for her. Even that sentence makes me teary.
For so many years, I tried so damn hard for her death not to define me. I imagined it would make her mad, if I was sad. This was likely a coping mechanism I crafted so I would not land in a heap of tears and bed sheets 24/7.
I used her voice in my head to keep from falling apart. Mom would not want that for you? She would be good and pissed. Buck up. Make her proud. You are strong.
I am here to call bullshit on me. Perhaps those were the only tools I had back then. The ones I made up. Nobody offered a therapist for grief back then. Heck, I don’t recall anyone saying anything about grief or grieving. I was 27 and married. And we all just went back to work. I am pretty miffed about that now.
Before she died, I was a publicist. Head of PR for The Wool Bureau. We were funded by the Australian wool growers and tasked with upping the US consumption of wool and promoting its natural, fashionable, non-wrinkly, soft hand—all while removing any hint at itch or scratch.
An editor at Women’s Wear Daily connected me with another PR whip and we drummed up a plan to combine our strengths and start a firm. We met in the freezing cold AC of Au Bon Pain and 100s of lemonades later, hatched our escape. I went into the corner office to quit, and landed The Wool Bureau as a first client. Later we added Brooks Brothers and Jockey to the list, Cynthia Rowley and Victor Alfaro among others. Mom was proud. My entire salary divvied up into a monthly retainer on day one and a wholesale wardrobe. Her girl from NJ had made it.
I left the business to Kate when my (then) husband got a job offer with Fox. That was my first middle finger to death. I quit. I moved across the country to get out of the skin I was in—start over. Forget? Move on? It was also my first act at post death defiance. Mom has no say now. I’ll show her. Staying close to home was always important to her. Now, I was a motherless rebel.
Grief found me in Chicago. It was like forwarded mail. There it was waiting for me in the new high-rise at Clark and Elm. Nope. No Mom. Still missing. I had now ditched all the support and work I knew and loved. My disappearing act rendered me an awful magician. Note: This trick is not recommended.
I am back East now, since September. It took a long time to get home. A whole lot of therapy, two girls and new husband and several career acts later. Now that I am here, I am not even sure what “home” actually means.
I guess I find home in the memories. The memories of her. Buying something at discount. Seeing a play. Being back in The City. (That is and always will be New York for clarity.) Eating one of her most beloved treats, Santa Rosa Plums. They come but once a summer, and she had three pounds on her last day. They must think I am mad at the grocery when I check out with my daily stash. Santa Rosa season is short and you have to eat as many as possible while they are here. Ellen’s rules. And damn the price — her seasonal battle cry. Eat your summer fruit. Dear reader, you should too. For Mom! Believe me, she had impeccable taste in everything, plums too. And 30 years. She deserves your support.
I won’t ever get over her not being here. The pain is now a part of me. It is less sharp and knawing. A hum. A din. An invisible cardigan. It is now who I am. Barri with 27 years of Ellen wrapped in. And now a Grief Coach. So I can ease your journey.
What I know now that I could not fully appreciate then, is that even 27 short years of having her, is lucky. I had what most will never have. A mom like her. A bond like ours. Her modern wisdom and counsel. Love of words. Bad ones too. Jersey sand and shore in my blood. That style-on a dime. Smiling eyes. Juicing my girls with every ounce of the unorthodox mothering methods I have in bones raised by her. God, I wish the world knew her. She would surely be famous. Bet she is upstairs.
I live for all that she is missing with the hope that she is riding side saddle, her hair in the wind. I love you, Mom. And I miss you too damn much. I hope you are proud. And most of all, I hope they have your plums in heaven.