This I Believe

Yesterday marked two years since the death of my mother. Although I’d been anticipating it all month, I didn’t remember until late afternoon—consciously, that is.

A few months after she died I wrote a piece, inspired by NPR’s This I Believe series, about my mother’s card-sending habits—she kept a date book of people’s birthdays and never missed one, even if she hadn’t seen the person in decades. Right after she died I had a compulsion, after years of neglect in this area, to send out holiday cards.

A few weeks ago I designed this year’s holiday card with pictures of my grandsons, planning to print and address them when I had the time. And then yesterday, without consciously remembering it was the anniversary of my mother’s death, with a million other things I should have been doing, I was seized with the desire to work on the cards. I could do nothing else; accomplishing this task was absolutely vital to my well-being.

Later, when I remembered the date, I knew why.

Here’s the piece I wrote for This I Believe.

When someone close to me dies, I seem to unconsciously assume some of their habits or characteristics. Since my mother died, for instance, I’ve had cravings for chocolate-covered cherries, and I find myself frequently listening to Broadway show tunes. I’ve observed this with other people too—usually what happens is that people who were close to the deceased, but not to each other, form a more intimate bond after the person’s death.

We’re doing what we can to replace the person. We’re continuing their work in the world.

My mother was famous for religiously acknowledging birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, and other such milestones. Those accustomed to receiving an annual birthday card from her would have worried if one failed to appear—but it never happened. She kept a small leather-bound book in which birthdays and anniversaries were meticulously recorded. Next to children’s names she noted their year of birth in order to choose age-appropriate cards. She shopped mid-month at a greeting card store with such regularity that the clerks knew when to expect her, and saved her sale items or cards they thought she might like. She signed and addressed a month’s worth at once, noting their due day in the corner of the envelope where a stamp would eventually hide it, and she kept them stacked chronologically on a table in the hall.

Some time around my 40’s my mother presented me with a book like hers, with family members’ birthdays penned in. I tried to emulate her habit, but it soon became too much: too much brain-ache choosing the perfect card; too much money as the price of a Hallmark rose; too much resentment when the gesture wasn’t reciprocated.

But until December 1, 2005, when she died at the age of 87, my mother continued sending cards to a dwindling number of peers and a growing number of great-grandchildren.

Sinatra, my mom’s heartthrob

After the Florida funeral, I went back home and was seized, for the first time in my life, with an overwhelming, urgent need to send out holiday cards. I am Jewish, I don’t celebrate Christmas, and my friends don’t expect cards from me. Yet after my mother’s death I searched through every address book and Roladex card in the house, gathering names and addresses, and hustled to get the cards out in time. I didn’t realize where this compulsion came from—until Valentines Day when Hallmark fever hit me again.

As I drew hearts and exxes on cards to grandsons, aunts, friends and children, the reason I was doing it began to dawn on me. When I addressed a card to my sister it became crystal clear: this was no empty gesture–she would receive this card on the first Valentines Day of her life when no card would arrive from my mother. This card would matter.

I was replacing my mother as best I could. I was doing her work in the world.

What gesture or habit of mine will my children adopt when I’m gone? Will they write fervent letters to Congresspeople on issues of social justice? Create themed musical CDs in response to events like 911 or Hurricane Katrina? I don’t know what it will be—but of one thing I’m certain: they’ll take on something about me, even if it’s only doing crossword puzzles.

When someone close to us dies, we continue their work in the world. It’s our way of keeping them alive.