My mother kept a journal. Every single day from 1970 to 1984, she kept a daily log, writing about all events in the same style, no matter how mundane or monumental. The day she left Minnesota with friends to escape to California. The day she met a Turkish man at a party in San Bruno. The day she married him five years later. The day my brother was born. The day I’m born. The day she and my father separated. The days she did nothing at all. Each entry is afforded the same length of three or four sentences. And she never missed a day. It’s unendingly interesting to me to have vignettes of this period of her life painted in the brief strokes of her excellent penmanship, and to know that the core of the woman I came to know had solidified decades before I ever became a person. Even more, it’s incredible to have a portrait of this girl my same age, this woman that eventually becomes my mother. This fierce, independent person that always wanted to be positive and seek out happiness, to seek joy out in others, to help them however she could. A firebrand that attacked life and pursued charity with an open heart. The portrait I will strive to remember as the acute grief of this moment claws at me. My mother, Sharon Alpay, born Sharon Ann May, passed away in her sleep on Friday March 29th, 2014. She was 63 years old. My mother harbored an ocean of love and optimism in life and for life, but she was not an easy woman. She navigated a troubled childhood and spent her years running from something inside herself. By the time I was old enough to know her, she wanted only to escape the harm she stewarded — to find a kind of peace. She found it in friends; she touched a lot of people, even though she sometimes pushed them away. She found it in her work, as a tireless assistant to children with special needs. She found it in her children, raising two sons as a single parent the best she could. She was stubborn in her pursuit of this peace, as a means to mitigate some dark belief that she was the only person on which she could truly depend. No one chooses this for themselves. No one wants to be hurt. We all harbor pain, invested in us — and as it was given, so too will we, in terrible, unmeant ways, give. It’s passed down, distributed to those we profess to love or care about. This can not be prevented, and the cycle will not stop; it can only be minimized. My mother was a carrier of this kind of pain, and she built walls she thought necessary to protect herself. And yet, she loved me and my brother. She love us tremendously, as enormously as anyone can. I feel terrible that I didn’t reciprocate — could NEVER reciprocate — love to the extent that she gave. I feel selfish that I have learned so little from my mother’s unbridled example. But I’m trying to learn. My brother and I are considerably racked with guilt, thinking we could have done more. That somehow we could have overcome the emotional mountain range she’d assembled as her residence. We did our best to show her our love, though we, too, are imperfect people. I left for Europe on tour in early March, and before I did, I made a point of visiting my brother, my father, and my mom. I did this more as insurance for my family in case something was to happen to ME rather than them. Despite her sometimes ill health, we assumed our mom would be around for the next 20+ years. Our last visit involved lunch at a Texas Roadhouse and a purchase of two pairs of glasses for her at an optometrist. We enjoyed each other’s company more than we had in a long time; we laughed more than perhaps we EVER had. As much as one can with someone that passes away suddenly, I feel like we had a proper chance to say goodbye. I’m angry. I’m angry at the circumstance, and I’m angry the imperfections of our relationship, and I’m angry at me. And I miss her tremendously. Given the fullness of time, the sharpest edges of these moods will fade, I know. And she has found peace now, and that’s a source of peace for me. But I’m 31 years old, and this is the first time I have truly tasted loss. I have the dubious opportunity to be on the forefront of a generational milestone that all of my peers will muddle through, eventually. It’s a bitter pill. Life is pretty grey. We spend a lot of time angry at traffic, and excited about television shows, and disappointed with cancelled plans, and hopeful for promotions. It’s only when the dark, the truly black, reveals itself that we can recognize how light most of life can be, and tends to be, and is. We spend little time being appreciative — actually, deeply appreciative — of what we have. Maybe it’s a necessary human trait, to not focus too long on things that are too bad, or too good. It certainly makes things easier. But its necessary to transcend convenience and remember sometimes. We plan to have a memorial in Modesto, and we will announce the details for that in the coming days, to those that are interested in attending. I request that you forward any condolences through mediums that are not comments on this post. Although it feels weird to recognize this event on social media in the twenty-first century, it feels weirder not to. Please, as a favor, call someone in your family and share your love for them. Give them a hug in person, if you’re able. And if something of this nature happens to them in the future, know that I will be there, and I will bring the lessons of this time along with me. Amongst a host of other things, I will listen to you, and I will cry with you. And it will slowly become better.
Posted on: Wed, 09 Apr 2014 21:41:25 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015