On Holidays and memories.

It was a sunny day in April when I came home from yet another campaign. Truth be told, as I have grown older my dislike of Jewish tradition had grown. So after a stressful month and half, I spent a few extra days to visit WNY to see friends and MP. My mom was going through another round of chemo at the time and was well grumpy. When I told her of my choice to miss the first sedar she was REALLY not happy and had some choice words which made me more resolute to stay exactly where I was. 

When I did come home in time for second sedar, I had put my computer bag down a couch. Instead of asking me to move it; she grabbed it and threw it to the ground so it landed with a thud. I got up to ask why she had done that and my father just told me to be quiet.  She looked at me and said “You deserved that,” with a look of hatred and spite. And that would be my first hour home.

Sedar went late as it always did when she required tradition be followed to the letter. That heightened my excitement to sleep-in, a luxury that was not afforded me during my time on the campaign.  I was comfy in bed until I was shaken awake

“WHERE IS THE CINNAMON?” A voice asked.

“I don’t know. What time is it? “ I replied.

“YOU DIDN’T ANSWER MY QUESTION, YOU BITCH. WHERE IS IT?”

It became apparent the voice belonged to my mother.  I turned over and I repeated “I haven’t been here, I don’t know.”

“You are a FUCKING liar. You hid it from me….” She screamed.

It was at this point my father finally came into my room. He grabbed my mother and repeated “Just [my dad's nickname for my mom when he frustrated her], I told you. I used it up when I was making the food for sedar. I’ll get more after Yom Tov.”

“You are always protecting that ungrateful bitch. I could kill her…..” the voice trailed off as my dad closed my door and escorted my mom to her room. I rolled over and went back to sleep.

When I emerged later in the morning, I turned on the tv and sat on the couch in my family room. A little over an hour later, she emerged from her cave and saw me there.  She started screaming insults unbefitting a mother repeating her accusation about the cinnamon.

My dad emerged as I tried to leave the room. She positioned herself to block me as she continued to scream at me. My dad again tried to remind her I hadn’t been here.  I asked her to move and she refused. I asked her again, she dug in and her words became more hateful and hurtful.

I had learned long ago, if I cried, she would stop. That failed today.  I knew she was weak from her treatments.  I repeated I didn’t know and asked her to move or else I would move her.

“Why? Because you know where the cinnamon is and you are a spiteful *** who would do anything to hurt me?”

It was with that last comment I decided I had enough and nudged her out of the way.  She fell over, something I had not expected her to do. She continued to yell her hateful words as she reached for the macaroons on the counter.  She threw them at me as I left the room. I caught them and threw them back hitting her in the stomach and she fell again.

My dad helped her up as she continued to scream. He gave me enough time to grab my computer bag, quickly put on a pair of jeans and get out of the house.

I spent that day in Philly, trying to process what happened.  I went to my usual Tuesday night hang in the city when she called.

I was told to not come home and I was not welcome. My close friends know there is more but I cannot tell it here.  I called friend after friend asking them to take me in.  Many “no answers” combined with “You should just apologize to her.” They couldn’t understand it was beyond that. I felt alone.

Finally, one of my surrogate moms, called me back and took me in. This was after my mom had called her with pride to explain what had happened.  I would stay there for a couple days while I came to the realization what had happened. My mom was dead.  She was gone.

I would spend the next few months, switching between Elmira and Cherry Hill until I was accepted at RIT and move in with MP.  I had little to no contact with her before she died that November. For me, she was gone and pretending anything less was hurtful.

 Another year before I felt like it was ok to be home. But the scar of my mom’s actions have been with my family and our relationship ever since.  My siblings have never understood that I had a good head start on the mourning process. For me, my mom died on the eve of the second night of Passover.