Every Day Is Mother’s Day

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From cradle to the grave, we are bound by the gift of life, and the woman who first held you in her arms as you took in the strange scenery of a brave new world.

What happens next varies for all of us. Some lives are rich with unconditional love and boundless beauty. Some lives are etched in pain, and in some cases, the heartbreaking reality that the person who gave you life may not be fit to care for you.

Most of us travel through life somewhere in-between. Mothers are rarely perfect. Most of them do the best they can. We love them despite their imperfections, much like they love us despite ours.

My mom was like that. Her name was Dalia Diaz. She was born on Jan. 8, 1921 in Cuba.

She married Francisco Diaz and they had three children. They came to this country in 1961 to get away from a monster named Fidel Castro.

It was culture shock to the nth degree. But my parents did the best they could in this strange land. They are both gone now, but my sisters and I carry on their legacy.

I don’t think of her as often as I should. She died in 2009 from complications with Alzheimer’s disease. We move on and grieve in different ways.

But now, as I feel social walls close in during an international pandemic, coupled with other personal challenges, I sure wish she was there to listen. Or at the very least give me a hug.

Mom hugs are great.

My mom had a fierce unconditional love for her children. My mom was neurotic. My mom was a sentimental sort who cried with little provocation. My mom was self-absorbed. My mom has a passion for sports. My mom was overly reactive when scores didn’t go her way.

I look in the mirror and find that I am my mother’s son in every way.

I fail her at times, and I regret that, but I would like to think she raised me right.

And I sure do miss her.

Happy Birthday 100th birthday mom.

Feliz cumpleanos mami.

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