This is my first Mother’s Day without my mom.
And I’ll be honest—I wasn’t sure how it would feel. I knew it would be quiet. No phone call. No reminder to go to Mass. No “Michael, you are full of soup” when I tried to pull one over on her like the wise ass that I am (my father’s words).
Grief is strange. It sneaks up on you when you pour a glass of chardonnay and catch yourself pouring an extra splash because that’s what mom would have done. It hits when Key Largo comes on the radio and you hear Bertie Higgins sing, “We had it all”—because if you said that in front of my mother, she’d reply without missing a beat: “Just like Bogey and Bacall.” You may wonder why I listen to radio stations that play Key Largo. Well, at some point I traded being a metal head for being an old man.
And then there’s the story. The one she told every single chance she got—how my twin brother Jimmy and I were supposed to be a large baby girl. I used to roll my eyes every time she launched into it, usually followed by my sister’s favorite quip: “If you were going to have two, couldn’t one of them have been a girl?” I’d give anything to hear her say it again.
I could wallow in sadness, no one would hold it against me. But today, I’m choosing to feel grateful.
Grateful that she was there for my first breath as my mother and I was there for her last.
Grateful for the lipstick kisses, the Angel perfume, the tootsie pops, and the endless supply of love and one-liners.
Grateful for the way she made everyone feel welcome—friends, neighbors, even strangers—who all left feeling like family.
Today isn’t a sad day (well it is, but it is more than that). It’s the continuation of a love story. One that started in Brooklyn in 1933 and lives on in everyone she loved—to the moon and back.
If today’s hard for you too, I see you. And if it’s joyful, I celebrate with you. Either way, maybe raise a glass (or a Tootsie Pop) to the moms who made us who we are.
