Mother love. . .and light

It’s Friday, just before Mother’s Day, and I am readying to light Shabbos candles.

And an image shared by a friend comes to me, a long line of women, stretching back generations, who, too, are sparking flames, kindling tapers, covering eyes, reciting blessings.

And, so, I reach for the tall, slender candlesticks in my cupboard that had stood sentry in my parents’ dining room, along with candles and matches, and light the lights.

And memory flows.

Of my mom.

Of all the things she did for me and my three sisters, of all the things we simply took for granted, especially her abiding presence.

Her light, her love.

She was in, a word, always there.

For us.

For her mom, for her five siblings, for our dad.

For so many others.

Memories of my older sister and me, just little kids in our Bronx apartment, three floors below our grandma, scrambling up the stairs behind the devoted daughter as she scurried to take care of whatever her mom needed.

And, later, after school, cookies and milk on the table, coffee cup in hand, waiting expectantly for us to rush in the door, bursting with stories about our day, and she, ever the patient listener, celebrating or commiserating with us on our adventures or mishaps.

The A on the spelling test, the last one picked for kickball, the compliment on writing, the despair at conquering geometry.

Or Sunday nights, all of us on the sofa watching Dinah Shore or Bonanza, my mom sneaking into the kitchen for a treat and coming back with a Milky Way neatly cut into fours.

Or her love of reading, the weekly trips to the library, the books that were stacked on her bedside table, and later, those shared and discussed.

The home cooked meals – always meat, potatoes, vegetable – served promptly at 6:15 pm, when my dad came through the door. And the conversation at the table as he filled her in on his day, and she listening attentively. As did we, the kids, learning every name of his coworkers and his trials and tribulations as he made it up the corporate ladder.

Or the occasional nights when our dad was on a business trip, and we each could pick a frozen entrée – a TV dinner, or one sister’s favorite shrimp scampi, or mine, chicken pot pie – a rare treat.

Or later, her beloved Hebrew students, crowded around a table in our basement playroom, patiently teaching them the aleph bet, sweetened with her homemade cookies.

Or her engagement with the larger world, her myriad interests, causes, concerns, politics, human rights, Jewish life. Her vegetable garden, overflowing with tomatoes and zucchini, the flowers she tended with care. And how she shared it all with us.

Never expecting recognition, praise, not even a thank you.

And so I am thinking of her today, her kindness, her generosity, her humility.

And what she taught us about how to walk in the world.

The light she shared.

And the love.