Remembering My Mom On Mother’s Day
Mother’s Day is almost here, and like many husbands, my son and I will take my wife, Esther, and a few other moms we know out to brunch. Every year we stop by the cemetery to pay respects to Esther’s mom. Last year, we visited my mom as well.
My mom passed away last year on Easter Sunday. Her loss left a void I didn’t expect. When my father passed away, my parish priest gave me a piece of advice that I never forgot. He said the best way to keep someone’s memory alive is to share your favorite stories of that person. I’ve given that piece of advice to many people over the past nine years.
In that spirit, let me tell you about my mother.
She was born in 1930, the oldest of eight children born in a corrugated tin shack in rural Puerto Rico. Their home had no electricity or running water, and the family had an outhouse that wasn’t quite next to the house. They lived in an area called Pasto Seco, which translates to dry grass.
Her childhood bore no resemblance to the way children grow up today. There was no internet, iPhones, or TikTok. Each child was given chores that would seem like indentured servitude to an iPhone-toting preteen. When she was a little girl, she and my Tio Oscar were each given a bucket to collect water from a local stream. To get to the stream, they had to walk through an open field occupied…
