Goodbye, Honey

This past Monday, I took an unexpected trip back to the town where I was born, Utica, New York. The night before, I received a phone call that my cousin, Mary, had died suddenly. The Funeral Mass would be on Monday.

Alone on my six hour drive, I thought about Mary and what she meant to me. Mary was married to my cousin, Tony, for 65 years. On the drive, I reflected about Mary. Tony and Mary lived on Conkling Avenue in a two family house. My grandmother lived upstairs, and Tony and Mary lived downstairs with their baby.

While staying with my grandmother, I would always run downstairs a million times to visit Mary. She never complained about it. It seemed every few years, Mary added another new baby to their growing family.

I loved hanging around Mary and her babies. I loved watching her hold her baby, talk to her baby, feed the baby, and bath her baby. I would help her. One time, I remembered I helped her to make a cake. I screwed up the measurements but Mary didn’t get mad. She just added more flour and everything was fine. Mary was like that.

Mary was a nurse and worked the night shift, and managed along with Tony to raise five children. Their house was filled with noise and laughter. And that was what I wanted. I came to idolize Mary. I knew then that when I grew up, I wanted to be just like Mary and have a house filled with children. Mary made it look so wonderful, so easy, and so rewarding.

Eventually I got married and had nine children. My house was filled with noise, joy, and chaos…just like Mary’s house was a long time ago.

At the funeral, one of Mary’s children mentioned, laughing, that I was an over achiever with having babies. That comment made me laugh as well. I guess I was an over achiever. Maybe so, but I came to love babies and children because of Mary.

Mary died at the age of 86. She lived a long life. Mary was a sweet, gentle, and wonderful person. So, let me just say, using Mary’s favorite word, ‘Honey’ - “Bye, Honey! Thanks for your love, guidance, and example. You will be deeply missed.