IN the weeks after my mother passed, salespeople at the stores she patronized, innocently asked how she was doing. When I told them that she had passed, they were shocked and saddened.
My mother was quite unforgettable. She was still doing errands, all by herself, all the way till she was 86. Most people, she told me, were surprised to learn of her age and to see that she was still going around the mall, unaccompanied.
My mother took pride in her independence. She was not used to assistance and she was not comfortable having other people help her. In this way, I am so like her.
Everyone remembers her fondly. And I smile when I think about how happy Mama must be hearing all these people speak of her so well. They remember her for being gentle, patient and kind. In this way, I am so NOT like her.
My father never fails to tell me, almost daily, how loving and devoted my mother was to him. “She was such a good wife, you know. She never complained about anything. She never gave me any problems.”
And as my father rattles off my mother’s virtues, I begin to wonder if my father is trying to tell me something. Does he think he will succeed where my mother failed?
“Your mother was very intelligent, you know, but she never defied me. She always submitted to me.”
I start to worry. My father is overreaching. My genetic makeup obviously comes from two people and he, of all people, should know from whom I got my alpha gene.
I want to tell him, “Okay, I understand that Mama had virtues I should emulate. But aspiring to convert me from defiant to submissive is aspiring for a major miracle. If I become submissive, not to mention a wife, I should be signed up for sainthood.”
Yes, we speak of Mama often. No, we don’t want to forget her. And even though some memories of her make us wistful, we don’t want to obliterate her from our lives. I realize now—this is what it means to love someone forever.
I read somewhere that some people don’t fear dying as much as they fear being forgotten.
Well, Mama need not fear because she is so well-remembered not just by her family and friends but by everyone who crossed paths with her. This, I think, is how one achieves immortality.
You are gone but your memory lives on.
How wonderful it is to live well and to be remembered so fondly, to know that you touched the lives of so many, that your life meant more than existence, that you were loved so well and that in your passing, you are so sorely missed.
Oh Ma, you will never be forgotten.
“Your mother loved me so well,” my father tells me.
How wonderful it is to leave this world and have someone say that you loved them so well. Yes, this is how I want to be remembered.