Tag: family

A Daughter’s Tribute to Her Mother

October 13, 2024

Today would have been Adriana Dillon’s 97th birthday. It has been 14 years since my Mother left us. 

Amazingly, though I spent many years remembering the dénouement, I am not sad thinking about her loss.  In fact, I don’t think of her as being absent from my life the way I did when it happened.  In many ways, she is ever more present than she ever was.

As my Mother was leaving this world, I emailed my children, who were not at her side, what their Grandfather, Aunt and Uncles and I were going through:

We have spent a lot of time laughing and crying together with her.  We have rosaries blessed by John Paul II and pray our Our Fathers and Holy Mary’s and St. Francis’ prayers… and then we will make jokes and laugh …

We are at peace, and know that Grannie is better off going to meet her parents, the Pope, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Thackeray, Balzac, Victor Hugo, and all her beloved authors.

Grannie always said she knew God would keep her in this world until we no longer needed her.  She needs to know now that we are strong enough to let go of her.

Reflecting on those last moments, I realize how lucky we were to be able to mix laughter with the tears, and to share until the very end the strong family bond that was at the heart of my Mother’s life.

I also realized then, after a full year of her death, the meaning behind the tradition of wearing black for mourning.  It was a way to let the world know that the mourner was going through a stage in his/her life that required others to understand, at the very least, his/her constant void and woeful sorrow.

I once wrote that “not all women who give birth are good Mothers, and many women who do not have children themselves make formidable Mothers. For the essence of Motherhood is in giving of oneself in a selfless manner.”  My Mother was the most unselfish person I have known.

Two years after her death I embarked on a new venture, one that would take me to Afghanistan, something that I found exhilarating and approached with trepidatious anticipation.  How I wish I could have shared with her my discoveries of Afghanistan’s history and poetry and art. There was enduring beauty I came across, despite the incessant danger and sadness of a war-ravaged place.

Her constant reflections and wisdom are my ever-guiding principles.  God’s mills grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly small was one of her favorite quotes. In my own experience, it is absolutely true.

She also made the best scones and empanadas one could ever dream of, and her High Teas were a feast to behold, like Babette’s.

I am grateful that she was spared the biggest viscissitudes that some in her family have encountered since her death. I miss her physical presence, her big eyes and warm smile.  She left an indelible mark that withstands the ebb and flow of time. 

Since death is inescapable, one of these days we will all be with my Mother again.   She was an incurable romantic.  What I would give to watch Pride & Prejudice with her one more time.

If only I could leave a minuscule fraction of good will for my children to reflect on, I shall leave this world like my Mother said, when God no longer thinks I am needed around.


The Crossroads.

September 27, 2024

What memories an orange scarf can bring.

I have a bright orange silk hand-painted scarf. It is a pretty ornament, which can grace a woman’s sweater, dress, or coat.

We were far away then. My daughter found this pretty scarf during her school’s international fair and immediately thought of her Nonna. With her hard-earned dollars, she bought it from the lady who had painted it herself, because she thought the color combination was perfect for her own Grandmother to wear. I remember thinking how perceptive a 12-year old could already be. My Mother loved pinks, taupes and oranges.

I have this pretty kerchief because my Mother died. When we were clearing her things, that orange scarf brought back precious memories. Every time I look at this scarf I see myself wondering the halls of the school with my child.

Last night, as I was folding the scarf to put away, it struck me that its criss-cross pattern very much reflects the crossroads of life. My Mother is gone, but memories of her and her guiding principles remain. They are stronger today than when she was alive.

As I grow older, I understand my Mother’s view that -somehow- life and our experiences are interconnected by strong currents and delicate tendrils.

The orange color brought to mind an old song my Mother used to sing to us when we were kids, about an old blind man, a young Mother and her child, and an orange that quenched the child’s thirst. Little did I know that the song was an old Spanish romance from the 15th century. That was my Mother… a true teacher at heart, making the archaic sound modern to her children.

Because Christmas was fast approaching, I shared the Spanish version with my children… One day I will strive to translate… But maybe not. Here is a lovely translation: The Faith of the Blind.

LA VIRGEN y EL CIEGO

Camina la Virgen pura
camina para Belén
y en el medio del camino
pidió el niño de beber.

No pidas agua mi niño
no pidas agua mi bien
que las aguas vienen turbias
y los arroyos también.

Allá arriba, más arriba
hay un viejo naranjel
que lo guarda un cieguecito
cieguecito que no ve.

Me da usted una naranja
para el niño entretener.
Coja las que usted quiera
coja la buena mujer.

Cogían de una en una
salían de cien en cien
según las iba cortando
el ciego empezó a ver.

Quién es aquella señora
quién es aquella mujer
es la Virgen María
que camina para Belén.

(Originally published June 16, 2014.  Updated.)