A lifetime has passed since my mother died, yet fragments of memory, old photographs, and unanswered questions keep her presence alive.
My earliest memory of my mother is at home while my father was out — probably at work. She struggled to get up the stairs to the second floor of our small home. I remember helping her, but how much help could a three-year-old have been? I knew she was very sick, and when I next saw my father I told him all about it.
My mother died when I was three years old. I am seventy-one now, and the truth is, I know almost nothing about her. I know where she was born. I know she met my father in Pittsburgh after the Second World War. Beyond that, she exists in fragments — small facts, old photographs, and a feeling that has never left me.
One of the reasons I know so little is that my father almost never talked about her. I sometimes tentatively asked questions, but I could see how much pain it caused him. I met her brother in Germany several times and asked questions, but he didn't share much — perhaps because of the language barrier, perhaps for reasons I'll never know. I also remember, shortly after my mother's death, visiting her grave in Gibsonia, Pennsylvania, just outside Pittsburgh. As we drove out of the cemetery, my father was in obvious distress. I asked him what was wrong. He said, "It's hard for me to leave your mother here." After that, I stopped asking. I think he loved her very much. After losing her, I don't think he wanted to risk any more pain than he had already endured. I was his life, which was both a blessing and a burden.
I have only those two memories of her. Everything else is a question.
I imagine small details that seem impossible to know now. Her favorite color — would that tell me anything at all? Did she like to cook? And if so, what smells once filled our kitchen? What dishes reminded her of home? I think about her voice. As an immigrant, how was her English? Did it carry traces of the world she had left?
And then the most intimate question: what drew her to my father? I can only guess, and in doing so I realize I'm inventing a love story, because the real one is lost.
In the old photographs, I can see it clearly — in the way she holds me, in the softness of her gaze. She loved me. That I know.