You can call me Mom
**In Memory of my Mother-in-Law, Viola** (9/14/1936-5/15/2018)
You can call me Mom. That’s what she said 25 years ago; the woman with a rosary winding around the left side of her heart and a wooden cross with Jesus holding up the mechanical valve on the right...beat beat...beat beat. That’s what this Catholic woman with cropped hair the color of a sandstorm and oversized round glasses said to the Jewish woman creating a family with her daughter; You can call me Mom.
On my 54th birthday, I listened to the rosary said again and again while her 27 x 42 picture glared at me as I sat in a Catholic Church situated on a dusty road in Santa Fe. It didn’t feel like a day to celebrate.
As I heard her best friend of 60-something years explain how she was like a sister, it didn’t feel like a day to celebrate. As I listened to a 20 person choir harmonize to 10 guitarists playing a mariachi-inspired hymn, it didn’t feel like a day to celebrate. As I watched my son cradle my daughter while tears cascaded down his cheeks, it didn’t feel like a day to celebrate. As I squeezed my partner’s hand knowing that the hole in her heart was more massive than the Grand Canyon, it didn’t feel like a day to celebrate.
Last year on my 53rd, you left a voicemail singing “Happy Birthday to you…” just like every year since 1992. This year, I sat on a wooden pew. It did not feel like a day to celebrate.
You can call me Mom. That’s what she said to me 25 years ago.