Goodbye, Marilyn

On a rainy Sunday morning in Boston, family and friends gathered at the Baker Street Cemetery to honor the memory of my mother-in-law, Marilyn Mallock. My husband, Jim, and I waited in our car for nearly a half hour, staying dry and reading a few headlines from the Sunday papers.

If it had been up to Marilyn, she would never have permitted it to rain. She would have wanted us mingling and laughing together, not huddling under umbrellas.

By 10:30, about two dozen people stood beneath a roof of assorted umbrellas at the Mallock gravesite. Exactly one year ago, we had stood in the same spot, taking turns to tearfully scoop dirt over her coffin. Today we commemorated Marilyn’s death with an unveiling ceremony, a formal dedication of the monument bearing her name and her dates of birth and death: June 16, 1931 – September 3, 2024. A rabbi led the prayers, concluding with the Kaddish, an expression of both praise for God and acceptance of His will, even in the face of our loss.

The rabbi invited us to think of a moment from the past year when we had remembered Marilyn. For me, the memories were numerous, but my thoughts traveled to the summer of 2020. It was the height of the pandemic, and I visited Marilyn outdoors at her apartment in Newton. Our masked, distanced visit was as chaste as a well-chaperoned middle-school dance. No hugs or kisses, no contact whatsoever, but it was so good to see her in person, sharing the Dunkin’ coffee and homemade muffins I had brought.

After the graveside service, we made our way to a restaurant in Chestnut Hill. As we waited in the vestibule, I learned about another grief shadowing the family. Beth, the longtime partner of Marilyn’s son Jerold, had lost her own adult son. In late July, he called her when he should have been dialing 911 and rushing by ambulance to the hospital. Instead, he died from a ruptured aneurysm. Beth has returned to her classroom, but her grief is still raw and tender. My heart opened to her, but all I could offer were my arms in a warm embrace and my ears to listen to her story.

Inside the restaurant, the extended family gathered in the same private room we had occupied a year before. But this year, with fewer people, the other half of the space was filled with pink balloons and baby-shower guests. It felt like a miniature circle of life: one group gathered to celebrate an impending joyful birth, and another gathered to mark the one-year anniversary of our matriarch’s passing.

But every time someone said they were sorry that we were together under these circumstances, I wanted to correct them. In fact, while we all dearly miss Marilyn, she lived to the remarkable age of 93! We were gathered to celebrate her life and legacy. Marilyn had seen her sons grow up, welcomed their partners, attended weddings, and held eight grandbabies and six great-grandchildren.

The highlight of our afternoon together was when Marilyn’s beloved niece Ann informally polled everyone for a favorite memory, just as the rabbi had suggested. Their stories drew a portrait of Marilyn as the loving woman she was, the wonderful listener who only gave advice when asked, the nonjudgmental ear on the other end of the telephone, an expert at helping sort out problems.

She was so generous. All the grandkids recalled shopping with Grandma and getting whatever they wanted. While they described that, I remembered the joy of receiving her birthday cards, always with a check tucked inside, enough for a small indulgence. It was her bequest, in fact, that made our gathering at the restaurant possible.

While Jim and I drove four hours back home to New Jersey, I thought that Marilyn would have been delighted by the laughter, hugs, and stories that kept her spirit alive in the room. We came together in her honor that day, not reeling from our loss but rather lifted by gratitude for the many years we shared with her. The stories and memories of Marilyn are blessings that will always keep her close. As long as we speak her name, Marilyn’s love will continue to live on.

Susan FitzGibbon of West Orange is a teacher. Her summers are filled with travel, where she enjoys experiencing different cultures. She’s a longtime reader of the New Jersey Jewish News.