Rethinking My ‘Picture-Perfect’ Childhood
Thoughts on my mom, 20 years after her passing.
Yesterday marked 20 years since my mom, Barbara, passed away. It’s hard to fathom that amount of time without her. I traveled to rural Illinois to mark this milestone, visiting her grave at our small family cemetery with my dad and older sister. It was the most beautiful fall day, with the sun shining down, a warm breeze blowing and a blanket of golden leaves on the ground. We laughed, and cried, with my younger sister on FaceTime, reminiscing about what an exceptional woman our mom was.
If I am honest with myself, my grief hasn’t lessened in these two decades. Rather, it has evolved. I ache in new ways, especially on my own journey as a mother. What I wouldn’t give to talk with her about raising us, to round out my memories from childhood with a grown-up reality check. My dad, for all his wonderful qualities, is not a reliable source on these particulars. So instead I hunt for clues where I can find them, like in the picture I spotted over the summer at my aunt’s house. More thoughts below.
Please give those you love an extra hug for me this week for me — and vote! My mom believed deeply in the importance of voting.
Rethinking My ‘Picture-Perfect’ Childhood
This summer, on a visit to Oregon, Matt and I brought my dad and our kids to visit my Aunt Susan in Corvallis. My dad’s oldest sister lives in her longtime home that is teeming with time-capsule-esque treasures: blankets she knitted, trinkets from her many travels, stacks of tea cups and decorative hearts hanging from the wall. I was most moved by the deluge of photographs, in frames on every surface and taped to the walls and cabinets. In my aunt’s dining room, situated right about my eye level, was a picture I had not seen before of me and my parents. I gasped.