Motherless Mother’s Days and Other Anti-Ceremonial Spins

April 7th was the forty-first anniversary of my mother’s death. Grief cracked right through me like some sort of trick, soon to arrive Easter egg, I thought was hard-boiled but had eluded the process.  Forty-one years and all that oozing loss still in there. A very wise therapist who wrote a book about grief, said our problem as adults is we never learn how to grieve, which is a necessary and on-going process (loss being so continual a factor in our lives).  All change, good or not so, involves letting go of something. Simple math. April 7th is just about a month and change before Mother’s Day and thus, on the list of the ceremonial occasions I truly either dread or loathe; Valentine’s Day, Xmas, New Year’s Eve, weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs, all events that require performance masks (“this is how you are supposed to feel, dress, behave”), Mother’s Day reigns supreme. So, my first Motherless Mother’s Day, all those years ago.  The mantle, had really passed eight years before when I was twenty and my mother was first operated on for the colon cancer that eventually killed her (or, mercifully removed what little was left of her, effective human disposal machine that it is). But, now, there was no possible hope of some miraculous return to the Bunny hutch.  My daughter was three. My son was 3 months. My father was crazy, my relatives were, shall we say, not even in the omelet line.  My then marriage was disappearing as fast as the Easter Bunny the day after.  And my mother was dead.  What did that mean, exactly?...