When Rob’s mother died, I had mixed feelings. Phyllis and I had a flimsy, at best, relationship. The only thing we shared in common was our love for Rob. My love for him was the romantic and strong love of a spouse for a partner in both life and parenting. Phyllis loved the man we shared fiercely, possessively, proudly—as only the mother of an only son can really love.
Now, all that was left of Phyllis and her love was hidden away in the blue and white ceramic urn on our mantle, awaiting inurnment at Hebron Cemetery next month. Suddenly my teenage daughter’s voice broke into my quiet reflections about love and death.
“Hey, Mom! The cat just sprayed on Grandma’s urn!” Continue reading