A Letter to My Mother (Z”L) on her 75th Birthday

Dear Mom,

Happy 75th birthday.

Today Jonas turns seven, and tomorrow you would have turned 75. Your two birthdays, one day apart, always arrive together.

I’m looking at a photo from your 71st, the last birthday we all had together: the two of you side by side in paper party hats, a big square cake piled with cream and strawberries, and across the chocolate, in white icing, “Happy Birthday Jonas & Leslie.” One cake, two names, and the 7 and the 1 standing between you like they belonged to both of you. You’re both laughing. I didn’t know then how much I’d hold on to that picture.

I keep imagining what this year would have looked like. You’d have pretended not to want a fuss, then loved every second of it. There’d be a dog at your feet, a book face-down on the arm of the chair, and paint somewhere it shouldn’t be.

Seventy-five years since you came into the world in Oak Park, Michigan. You made tens of thousands of paintings in that time. I used to think that number was about talent, and it was, but now I think it was about something else too: you simply couldn’t stop seeing beauty, pain, anger, fear, love and all the feelings, and needing to put them somewhere. Oils, acrylics, watercolours, whatever was in reach.

Mom, Jonas is you. He paints and draws for hours, lost in it the way you used to be, and when he looks up from the page, it’s your blue eyes looking back at me. He has your features, your focus, your gift. Whatever you poured into all those canvases, some of it landed in him. I watch him and I feel you in the room.

Jacob and Lenny are growing up so fast too, each with their own bit of you: the stubbornness, the jokes, the way they notice things. I started my own business this year, mostly so I could be home for them the way you were for me. Some days I hear myself say something and it’s your voice coming out. I’ve stopped minding. I even dress in your crazy, kooky way, and Jack just laughs and says, “You’re turning into your mother.” And that’s not a bad thing!

You dreamed of living out your days in Israel, and you did. You got there, to Jerusalem, the city you loved. Not everyone gets their dream. You got yours.

You taught little children to paint. You taught me to laugh at the right moments and to keep going at the hard ones. You taught me that remembering matters. I’m trying to do that now, for you.

I miss your humour most. Nobody else finds the same things funny. We watch Seinfeld often and laugh out loud, and I know you’re there, laughing with us.

Happy birthday, Mom. This weekend we’ll have cake for two again, and save you a slice.

I love you, and I carry you everywhere.

May your memory forever be a blessing.

Yours always,

Leah