My husband finally met my mother this weekend.
It was short and sweet, and she didn’t say a word, but it meant the world to him.
In 1993, my mother died of liver cancer. She was 40 years old, a single mother, and I was her only child. There are many predictably soul-crushing aspects to this unfortunate life statistic, but I daresay I’m happy with my life.
I met a great guy, who for some reason beyond my comprehension, professed his undying devotion to me and asked for my hand in marriage. We had a zoo of pets that we poured our love into, and when we thought we were ready for a two-legged baby, the good Lord blessed us with a feisty son.
But there was something always bugging my husband.
“When are you going to take me to see your mother’s grave?”
It wasn’t the first time he had asked. In fact, he’s brought it up a few times during our six years together.
My mother is buried in Macomb County, where I grew up. And, even though I have only gone to the cemetery about a dozen times since her burial, I know exactly where the plot is. She is in a beautiful spot, near a large shade tree.
And now, my grandmother is finally with her. We traveled home to finally lay my grandmother to rest and bury her ashes next to her husband and daughter. It was a relief to know that she was at peace with those most precious to her, and it was cathartic to finally show my husband — and son — what was my most hallowed ground.
It was temperate day, with storm clouds threatening. The process was brief — almost anticlimactic — and then it was over. As I stood there, my husband took my son’s little hand and led him over to my mother’s grave.
“Ben,” he said, “this is your grandma. Can you say hello?”
Ben looked down at the gravestone I selected for my mother all those years ago and just stood silent, and I saw my husband grieve for a woman he never met.
Now that’s love, pure and simple, and I know my mother was pleased to finally make their acquaintance.
— Sarah Leach is the editor of The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 546-4278 or sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.
It was short and sweet, and she didn’t say a word, but it meant the world to him.
In 1993, my mother died of liver cancer. She was 40 years old, a single mother, and I was her only child. There are many predictably soul-crushing aspects to this unfortunate life statistic, but I daresay I’m happy with my life.
I met a great guy, who for some reason beyond my comprehension, professed his undying devotion to me and asked for my hand in marriage. We had a zoo of pets that we poured our love into, and when we thought we were ready for a two-legged baby, the good Lord blessed us with a feisty son.
But there was something always bugging my husband.
“When are you going to take me to see your mother’s grave?”
It wasn’t the first time he had asked. In fact, he’s brought it up a few times during our six years together.
My mother is buried in Macomb County, where I grew up. And, even though I have only gone to the cemetery about a dozen times since her burial, I know exactly where the plot is. She is in a beautiful spot, near a large shade tree.
And now, my grandmother is finally with her. We traveled home to finally lay my grandmother to rest and bury her ashes next to her husband and daughter. It was a relief to know that she was at peace with those most precious to her, and it was cathartic to finally show my husband — and son — what was my most hallowed ground.
It was temperate day, with storm clouds threatening. The process was brief — almost anticlimactic — and then it was over. As I stood there, my husband took my son’s little hand and led him over to my mother’s grave.
“Ben,” he said, “this is your grandma. Can you say hello?”
Ben looked down at the gravestone I selected for my mother all those years ago and just stood silent, and I saw my husband grieve for a woman he never met.
Now that’s love, pure and simple, and I know my mother was pleased to finally make their acquaintance.
— Sarah Leach is the editor of The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 546-4278 or sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.
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