Firsts, we all have them. Our first step, our first kiss, our first time. Today, Easter Sunday, is a first for my brothers and me. Today marks the first holiday without our Mom.

Holidays had become just another day. At least that's the way they felt to me before today. In fact, if anything, I would grumble that I had to drive all the way to Boston to take out my Mom and meet my family. Grumble I am still doing but not for the same reasons.

The significance of this day is only the beginning of what will be a long string of firsts. First of which I would like to do away with.

I have been thrown into a tailspin from the loss of my Mom. A new phase of my life has begun. I am a Motherless Daughter. Another first. Firsts as a child were looked upon with great anticipation. Your first bike, your first day at school, your first best friend. Happy firsts! But life is not all happy firsts as today surely proves. There is a sobering reality about this first. I had always envisioned holidays to be as you see them on television. Few ever lived up to that vision. Yet last Christmas with Mom did. That holiday too was a first. Not only was it the first time I truly felt that my Mom was proud of me, but it lived up to the movie script in my mind's eye. It was magical.

Now, after experiencing what a holiday is suppose to be, suppose to feel like, I find my self back to the emptiness of just another day. A loneliness that I can not shake, a void that no one can fill.

We gathered together last evening, three adult men and five adult women. The Daly family. The kind of family that you would wish for. A family that was proud to be together, that really wanted to be together, that enjoyed each other's company. Just like on television. But this time it wasn't make believe. This time it was real. We ate, we drank, laughed and we cried. Mom and Dad couldn't be there. God, or whomever it is who decides these things, had other plans for them. But in a strange, comforting way, both of them were there. They were in our faces, our mannerisms, our eyes, and our hands. They were there in the history of this restaurant. They were there in the stories we would tell and the way that we would tell them. The table was set for eight, but there were ten people gathered there last night.

So, today marks the first holiday without them. There is a sadness that shadows this holiday knowing that this first won't be the last.

Copyright © 2002 Pat Daly. All rights reserved.

The cold, noisy hallways of the nursing home were unfamiliar and scary to me. I can only imagine what it felt like to be aged ninety three in those hallways. Words which made no sense came from people scattered about in wheelchairs. Screams echoed throughout the building, "Help me! Help me!" This was NOT where I wanted my Nana to be. I KNOW it's not where she wanted to be.

Married for nearly sixty three wonderful years to my grandfather, or "Pop" as we lovingly called him, my Nana spent the four years after his death living with my parents. Upon his death bed, my Pop asked my father to "take care of your mother." And he did. My parents took her into their home, adjusting their lives around her; because they loved her and my Pop.

As time went on, she became more forgetful, but not to the extent where you couldn't have a conversation with her; although they were often about the same things. She got around on her own quite well; puttering here and there, adjusting her teacup or making her bed. A piano player since her youth, she still "tickled those ivories" playing the same songs over and over again. I can still remember both she and I laughing as she "One, two, threed" out of the chair. But, she always did it—on her own.

She was never happy after my Pop died, not in the true sense of the word. Half of her was missing. She resented the world, she resented God, and took it out on my parents. She didn't mean to be "mean." She was lonely, frustrated, and away from the man and the home that were her life. She vented her bitterness—maybe that was good for her. It was tough on me.

Copyright © 2002 Ellen M. DuBois. All rights reserved.

If there was ever a way for a mother to prove her love to her child, it would be to give their life for their child. All mothers have thought this at least once in their minds while sitting and watching their child, but never in a million years do we believe it's going to actually happen.

It was a beautiful early evening in Cape Coral, Florida. My husband, Mike, had called earlier excited because he heard where the fish were biting. Our niece Laura (from Texas) was visiting us on her spring break and their earlier attempts at fishing had come up empty; so he was very anxious to get going and get out there. But, before he left he called me at work and wanted to know what we were doing for dinner. So typical of my darling husband and his quest for his evening meal. I laughed and told him that I would make his favorite spaghetti and that I could not wait to see him later. I told him I loved him with all my heart and excited and in a hurry he said he loved me too with all his heart and that was the last time I ever spoke to him. He died that afternoon, on his boat, with my niece the witness. He had a sudden massive heart attack. In explanation to his doctor from what Laura had told me, he told me that Mike passed out and he passed on. He never knew what hit him.