Posted in Lanscape of Loss, My Bonnie

the sister i’ll never know

Today is my sister’s birthday.

I was 19 when my mother told me that I had an older sister.

Mommy was sitting in this exact kitchen, looking like she looks in this photo, only I thought she was much older. (She was 40!)

She was 19 when Susan was born, only she wasn’t my mother then, and my father wasn’t her boyfriend.

She spent those months without family or friends at the Home for Unwed Mothers in Trenton.

“Don’t make 2 mistakes,” she used to say. “If you get pregnant, you don’t have to get married.”

A year after Susan was born, now pregnant with me, my mother married my father.

Though I searched for my older sister for years—in the faces of strangers, who looked familiar, and were also named, Susan–I only met her once, 17 years later, at my mother’s burial.

It was 17 years after that, just before my 54th birthday last autumn that I received the call,

Afterward, I looked through the photos posted online, and I was surprised and delighted and pained.

She looked so much like the rest of us in surprising ways. Another sister’s eyes. My niece’s cheeks. A familiar smile.

She lived so much life, without us, and was gone, 6 months before I knew she died.

To lose a sister without knowing seems criminal.

Shouldn’t I have felt something inside?

My mother only lived in that kitchen for a few years–in between the separation and the divorce.

She was on her dying bed when she met her daughter for the second time.

I’d found Susan, at the last minute, with the help of a woman at Catholic Charities.

In the years since I’ve fantasized about the conversations we’d have once we were reunited. I would finally have an older sister like I had been to so many.

Today is her first birthday from the other side. She would have been 56.

I’ve loved her all along just for being there, older than me, leading the way.

Now it’s as if a bead has fallen off the string of siblings my mother handed me.

Posted in Back to the Castle, Lanscape of Loss, My Bonnie

36 Hours at the Beach

On a later August morning, I woke before dawn, and took out my laptop to squeeze out a bit of deadline, while everyone else slept in the home that now only belonged to my husband’s mother, but moments later I closed my computer, and walked out the front door, and kept on walking, east, across the island, until my feet were in the sand, and the spray of sea against my face, and the sun streaming through the clouds in regal light.

I turned south then to trail the surf and passed under the fishing pier and kept on walking until I arrived at the beach of my childhood–set between the Pan Am & the Crusader hotels–and I noticed how the lifeguard stands bore the name of roads–all flowers and birds and plants (instead of numbers or men or cities) which is something I long dismissed as fluffy, and now receive, as grace.

At Cardinal, I turned away from the surf and trudged through the deep, soft sand, and into the dunes past the place where the prickers always found our ankles or shins, and past the beach hotels, across Atlantic Avenue, and down alongside the Little League field, with the dugout and the concession stand where Mrs. DelConte sold Reeses Cups; and then across Seaview, beside what remained of the beach cottages not yet turned into condos, until I came to a rose bush, on the corner of Pacific, just across the road from what had been my grandparents house, and then ours.

Only I didn’t pretend that I lived there, not this time, I just kept on walking. Past the Way’s house, which was the older sister house to ours (and the better-looking of the two elegant brick homes, having aged with love and continuity, instead of loss and abandonment), and paused a moment to nod on the diagonal toward the church across the avenue where I went to Sunday School and married my husband and buried my mother, and nodded too to the huge white house beside it, the mother house of these 3, all built by Philip Baker, who first settled the island in the late 1800s, and whose mansion became the home of my Aunt Sue, but was now a summer rental, for wealthy strangers.

I turned west past the Johnson’s and the DelConte’s and what had once been the Parsonage, until I came to the other end of the block which had been my entire world, my solo adventure, from the age of 4, a large cement rectangle, traversed barefoot, big toe bloodied by sidewalks shifting on sand, “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back,” pennies in my pocket.

Which must be why, after a summertime at the shore, I was bold enough to abandon the first-grade, at the mid-day, crossing the streets of Center City Philadelphia, arriving home to our crowded high rise, unannounced, “Hi Mom, I’m home for lunch.”

Nothing left but memory.

Anderson’s Corner Shop, my penny-candy Mecca, now a Realty Office; the bakery with the jelly donuts, a parking lot; and the Polish Shoe guy’s repair shop where he still charged only a dollar to fix the pumps I wore as a first-year teacher, a Driving School. Sticky Fingers, across Cardinal, a surf shop, and Snuffy’s Hoagies, across Aster, where my grandfather opened a lunch account for me the summer I was 7, now the Jellyfish Cafe. (Jellyfish?)

I continued west, across New Jersey Avenue, past Phillip Baker School which is no longer there, where my mother enrolled me in the second grade for two weeks at the end of June, in between our move from Virginia to Colorado, because I begged and squealed with delight to have a desk beside Debbie DelConte, my very best friend of every summer, and then I continued up the road toward the bay, even though I told myself that there was no need to see the house that had last been my mother’s, especially with the sun rising higher in the sky, and the day growing warm, and only 36 hours in town, some of them sleeping, and yet my feet brought me there, and I stood still for just a moment and asked myself to feel into her presence.

And there she was.
On the porch.
In her wicker chair.
And wasn’t it the memory of her tomato plants beside the stairs
that brought my tears.

And here was her steady, contemplative presence, and those deep chestnut eyes (that live on in my first born) and her dark lustrous hair that she dyed lighter and lighter and lighter until it was lighter than mine which she had always admired/envied? like my light eyes.

“Hi, Kel,” she’d said, as she always did, having named me after her people, who lived only a few blocks away, on the Wildwood side of the street (the “other” side of town), instead of Wildwood Crest, home to her well to do husband’s family.

And then it was the morning of my wedding, just after Jackie fixed my curls and put on my veil, and so I stopped by before I left the island to be sure that she was okay, and awake, and I was relieved to find her sitting on her front stoop, almost sober, still in her night dress, hair matted with neglect (why hadn’t I thought to bring her with me to Jackie’s) and careful of my veil (married twice but never in a gown herself) she kissed me on the cheek, almost somberly, and stood to wave as I got in my car, leaving, beneath her, a puddle of blood, not knowing that it was that time of the month or that she hadn’t eaten for weeks.

And so, I turned and walked away, two blocks north back toward my sleeping family, and at the end of that day, I continued north, 300 miles, into the mountains, that have for 25 years, been my home.

Posted in Lanscape of Loss, My Bonnie, Pure Love

Mercy

mercy-and-grace13 years ago, this day delivered a crushing grief.

7 sisters & a single brother lost their mother to cancer. The youngest two were still in highschool.

Despite a life decimated by pain, by separation, by divorce, by alcoholism, by teeming loss–we were there for each other, and for her.

Mercy is the legacy our mother left us; her life’s trials and tribulations tousled by grace.

May we always be worthy.