Those Who Mourn

by Deacon Daniel Wagnitz

Back in 1984, after my father’s passing, my siblings gathered for the task that I suspect most children really hope somehow never happens – dividing up our parent’s personal belongings. Since my mother had passed away five years earlier, there was a very tangible sense that an era in our lives had ended. The seven of us sat in a circle in our parents’ living room, as “the stuff” of their shared life was brought to the middle of the room one piece at a time.

Perhaps the item we spent the longest time with was the old cardboard box that was filled with all of the photographs accumulated through, and in some cases even before, their years together. We each grabbed handfuls of loose photographs and started sorting them into seven piles, one for each of us. I noticed several things. First. The vast majority of the photos were black and white. There was a fairly clear dividing line as most every photo that was in color quickly dated it to the very late 1960’s or after. Pictures actually taken by my parents were relatively few and far between.

The sheer volume of pictures increased in the years that my two sisters had cameras of their own. And, the number of pictures of grandchildren taken over one decade easily exceeded all of the childhood pictures taken of us. I think that spoke to two realities: taking and developing pictures over time became easier and cheaper, and there may have been a realization that time passes so very quickly; snatch what memories you can while you can.

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When the box was empty an eighth stack that had accumulated without much notice was returned to it. These were pictures, for the most part, of extended family members that at first pass, none of us really felt attached to. One picture though that was placed back in the box began to bother me. The picture was the high school portrait of my Aunt Loretta.

She was someone who died before my parents were even married, so none of us knew her. As the youngest of my family, I was the furthest removed from Loretta than any of us, so it was curious as to why seeing it get placed in what was the ‘throwaway’ pile immediately began to agitate me. I really hadn’t known anything about Loretta until the last year of my mother’s life. Both of my parents were very private people who didn’t speak much, if at all, about their past. But, during the last year of my mother’s life as she battled cancer, I think that she really connected deeply again with her sister, Loretta.

See, Loretta died of Leukemia before that high school picture could become her graduation picture. During that final year of my own mother’s life, I suspect she spoke with Loretta as someone whom she trusted, who really understood what she was going through. I know that Loretta was on my mother’s mind because she began to talk about her with me. She talked about Loretta’s easygoing nature and ready smile. Even as the Leukemia got worse, Loretta was cheerful; my mother said that her smile and her faith in God never faltered.

Head of a Young Woman, James Abbott McNeill Whistler, c.1840

The hardest memory was that because no local hospital claimed to have any kind of treatment, the decision was made to send Loretta to an out-of-state medical facility that treated those with her condition. They sent her off with great hope and many prayers, but a cure or even remission didn’t come. The one thing my mother grieved most was that she was not at Loretta’s side as she passed away. My mother passed away just weeks after sharing that regret with me. I have always believed that Loretta was there by my mother’s hospital bed praying for her as she completed her own journey through the thin veil and into eternal life.

As the evening ended with my siblings we hugged and said our good-byes. I stayed back to turn off the lights and lock the door. But before I did, I went back to the living room, reached into the cardboard picture box and took out Aunt Loretta’s picture. It occurred to me that twenty years prior, when she was in a similar circle with her siblings and they were going through their family’s picture box, that my mother chose Aunt Loretta’s picture to keep. Maybe it was the best that she could do to remember that smile, to remember the face of someone she loved, to not leave her to be alone. I didn’t want to leave her behind either.

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