The mirror has two faces

 

I have recently begun a stint as an obituary writer for a website out of Montclair University in New Jersey that honors people in the state who have died of COVID.   

Lovedandlostnj.com

My first piece will always be special, not just because of its subject, but also because it marks a return to obituary writing that I did frequently when I worked in daily journalism. I view obit writing as an art, a chance to write not about death, but about life. About that space on a gravestone between date of birth and date of death: the hyphen as history.

What struck me about Margaret MacKenzie was a photo included in the video of her life made by a grandson. She died at 93, but the image of 29-year-old Margaret touching up her hair on her wedding day in 1956 jumped out at me. That's because the photo you see here is almost exactly like one of my mother on her wedding day in 1959.

What you can't see in Margaret's photo is the crucifix on her dresser and the helping hand of her sister. Those were edited for space. But you can see here what looks like a bottle of perfume. And in my mother's photo, there's also a can of Aqua Net hairspray nearby for the firm hold she needed on a wedding day marred by heavy rain.

No bride can predict the weather to come in life. In Margaret's case, the world turned gray when her husband died at 55. And my mom? She had six children: There are three of us left. She has shed tears as heavy as that rain on her wedding day. 

Margaret was sustained after her husband's death by her children and grandchildren. So is my mom. When her offspring and their kids show up at the door or call her on the phone, she's ecstatic. We took her to dinner this past weekend on a chilly night with crunchy snow still beneath our feet; you would think she were dining in a Paris bistro. Then again, a Filet-O-Fish at McDonald's can make her rapturous. 

Margaret walked every day and did a 5K at 88. "She wasn't a normal grandmother," her grandson said about the woman who shared with him her picks for Sunday NFL games, written on a legal pad. Mom uses her calendar as a diary, jotting down the moments in her life as they occur each day. She acknowledges every birthday, including those of my lost siblings: July 15, March 26, Oct. 30. 

Does that tally mean she isn't a normal grandmother?  It doesn't; as she always says, everybody has heartache. But as their wedding pictures show, Mom and Margaret both embarked on uncertain journeys with happy, confident faces.

Right there in the mirror.      

     

 


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