A few years ago my childhood friend elevated regifting. She passed a hand-painted porcelain figurine my mother gave to her when she was a child, it was a birthday gift of a little boy and a little girl set on a circular music box that played, Love is a Many Splendid Thing. My friend held on to it all these years and then when she decided to re-home it, she gave it to me because she knew I was ready to receive it. Her timing was perfect and I felt wonder, not sorrow, at the sight of it. It was a reflection of my mother, so delicate and filled with music. I gently twisted the fragile children, they slowly turned as tinny notes of a song about love pinged from its base. Covered in mother memories, I cupped the gift in my hands and felt a little more of my long-held grief turn to mourning.
My generous friend said goodbye to her own mother this past December, a long life measured in family connection and laughter. Her mother was my favorite of my mother’s friends because she saw the best in everyone and everything, anchoring our neighborhood with her faith in us. By happenstance, amidst her mother’s belongings, my friend found a poem she had written as a child. The poem was about my mother and her death, written in childlike prose, her pain and confusion about the event breaking open on the pages. With quiet resolve and a loving note, my friend sent the poem to me. It arrived last week. I marvel at the depth of humility in people who think of others while in so much pain themselves.
Nobody spoke about death when we were kids, which sometimes still happens because it is difficult. Many people don’t understand the importance of explaining difficult things to children. At the time, my friend tried to puzzle out on her own what exactly happened to my mother, consulting with her slightly older sister because their mother was unable to talk with them about the loss. I imagine my mother’s dear friend was devastated, unable to explain the complexity of cancer to her children. My own father could never find the words. Broken hearts befriend silence, thus my mother’s death became a painful and confusing mystery for many of us. Childhood is where curiosity is born and all the questions begin, the two go hand-in-hand. The hardest thing to do is talk with children about death and nobody was prepared to answer our questions.
Finding no adult with the capacity to explain my mother’s death, my friend put pen to school ruled paper and wrote out her questions and adorations in simple verses holding a deep missingness for my mother, making certain to rhyme, because when you are ten or eleven, all poems should rhyme. Being slightly removed, not quite as close in proximity as a daughter, she was able to organize her thinking and name all her turbulent emotions, shaping them into thoughts describing her confusion, her longing, her sense of unfairness, outrage, and emptiness. Remarkably, her poem also reflected my mother’s generosity, a window for me to see into the best parts of her, detailing the ways my mother nurtured not only our family, but others by leading scouting, attending piano recitals, and holding picnics for other children she also cared about. Clearly, my mother made a difference with her abbreviated life. And she was treasured by all who knew her.
I’m so grateful my mother’s friend saved her grieving daughter’s poem written so long ago, a small narrative that has helped me stitch together a few new memories. It’s wonderous the poem was preserved in a safe place these forty years, which tells me everything about the importance of their friendship. My mother was so sick for so long I have only a few memories of what life was like with her when things were grand and cancer hadn’t come and she was thriving and vibrant. Traumatic memories tend to dominate, they trample over reminders of the softer, sweeter times. But the softer, sweeter times are the best parts and those are what I want surrounding me.
Maybe now is a good time to take a look at your things. Maybe see if you have an item that would help a person move through the world with greater ease. Are you the holder of a family heirloom that may help build connection, shared heritage, and do you have the will to offer it to someone else? I think this could be a way to connect in a time of isolation. It should be something you treasure and it has to hold shared memories or potentially improve a life; nobody wants unwanted debris, misguided purchases, junk. Those things need to go, but they need to go to the landfill or the donation pile. I have a friend who passes me gently used baby toys for visits from our grandchildren, sharing stories about the joy they found while using them and how she wished they could keep them and cannot wait to learn about our good fun, which delights me. You will know something is worth giving to a person if it is hard to let go of it.
What I loved most about the gift of my friend’s mother poem was that I saw so much of myself in it; my mothering, my tending to the world, my capacity to prioritize relationships and time with loved ones, all mirrored in this remarkable woman, my mother, reflected through a child’s words. All I’ve ever wanted was to be like my mother. What a relief it is to know the imprint of love is lasting.
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