It is a sunny November morning, just like it was thirteen years ago when I got a call from my dad telling me to come to the hospital right away; my mother was passing. My husband and I got dressed in a split second, jumped in the car, and drove the hour up to the hospital. We missed our opportunity to say good-bye. She was already gone. Everything else that happened next was like a dream. An awful slow, recurring dream. With my mother’s passing, everything else unraveled. My father, my sister, and me. I tried desperately to keep everyone together like she did, but I wasn’t her. I couldn’t keep us together. We fell apart. But this is not about them. This is about her – my mother – who gave me so much that I’m still learning every day what she had given me.
Vivian was born in 1922 and grew up during the Great Depression. When she told us about that time, it was always with fond memories, extended family, strong friendships, and delicious food. I imagined her at her grandma’s kitchen table helping to roll out pasta and getting milk and homemade biscotti as a reward. Her stories made me long for that time. I knew people were facing hardship, but there was also a sense of connection and community that my generation lacked, and I longed for.
However, because my mother grew up at a time when women did not have the same opportunities as men, she was not allowed to go to college. Instead, she worked as a seamstress sewing collars on dresses to put both her younger brothers through college. Then, when she got married, she put my father through college by working as a waitress in Florida. My parents moved back to New Jersey and started a family. It was only after I was born that my father told her that it was her turn to go to college, and so she did and became a teacher. As a young child, I remember going with her to college and even attended a class with her because I was having one of those four-year-old days when I did not want to separate from my mother. She took it all in stride, and I sat right next to her, answering the professor’s questions. I’m sure she was not pleased but probably was also proud of me for being able to converse easily with grownups. I loved talking with grownups, telling my stories – seems like I still do!
My mother worked as a teacher for twenty-five years. Looking back at old class photos, I can see how much she loved what she did. She put a lot of energy into her work and into her students. I loved listening to her talk about them and the projects she did with them. She had wanted to be a dress designer in New York City. She was a good artist and always encouraged my sister and me to paint and draw. In fact, she painted one wall in our basement pure white and let us paint and design whatever we desired. Once it was up for a while, she’d paint it white again, and we would start anew. Years later, I realized how much she influenced me: I love to draw, write, and read. I love sharing everything I know with small children. I taught many children to sew, just like my mom taught me.
When my mother died thirteen years ago at the age of ninety-one, I was allowed a week off to grieve, but I only took a couple of days. I went back to school, to the place my mother loved, and I connected to kids, like she had for so many years. Teaching comforted me because I knew I was doing what she had longed to do all those years ago.
Now, I finally understand that we never truly missed our chance to say goodbye. Every time I thread a needle, pick up a pencil to sketch, or look into the eyes of a child eager to learn, my mother is there. She didn’t just teach me how to navigate the world; she passed down her dreams and let them blossom through me. The white walls of my childhood basement may be gone, but the canvas she gave me remains bright and clear. I am my mother’s daughter, carrying her passion, her resilience, and her love into the classroom every day. She lived a full ninety-one years, but through the lives she touched—and the lives I continue to touch in her honor—Vivian’s story is far from over.
