Josephine Ann Dunn

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Joey

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Jo Doe

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Mom

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Nanna Jo

2/25/1947 - 7/30/1993

There are so many ways to say this. As with so many things, I came up with at least 13 of them:

1. Today is the anniversary of my mother's death.

2. On this day, 13 years ago, my mother died from internal injuries sustained from a fall from the 7th floor.

3. 13 years ago my little sister was 13 years old and basically an orphan.

4. 13 years ago today, Whitewolf had a dream that my mother had died. I poo-poohed it, saying that she was doing fine. Mom had been sober for a couple of months (after drinking for 10 years) and was out of the battering cycle – living alone in her new apartment. She was working in the Old Port. She was happy. She wasn’t in danger of dying. But even as I said those words, I thought about “what if?” and could picture calling the Red Cross to tell Daddy on the ship and could hear the argument I would have with my grandmother over where Mom had told me she wanted her ashes scattered and how could I possibly tell my sisters? The next day, we were awakened in the early morning by my uncle who informed us that my mother actually had died. I called the Red Cross, argued with my grandmother and had no words that could touch the depth of pain we three sisters felt.

5. 13 years later, we still don’t know if she was pushed out the window by her abusive boyfriend (released from prison that very day) or if it was, as he reported, an accidental fall. There was evidence of a wicked fight, of clawing struggle. But I don’t suppose it matters.

6. July 30th is the day I entered the D.M.C.

7. Today we lit a candle and shared stories about Josephine: how she hated milk but liked chocolate milk, how she loved ice skating and refinishing houses, how she managed to emerge from her childhood (remarkably) with enough hope intact to pass some on to her children, how she was the popcorn girl and the salt water taffy girl and a baton twirler and how my father asked her to go steady on the beach and how she always wanted to be Nanna Jo (like her Nanna) and how maybe that is the reason why Pk has no broken bones when really, by all accounts, he should. We spoke of her daredevil attitude and her evil eye and her love of animals. We were honest about her disease and of her losses as well as her gifts and her successes.

8. On July 31, 1993 I had a vision stronger and more perfectly clear than I ever could have conjured up with my own imagination. The very moment I was told of my mother’s death, I (a woman who does not believe in heaven or hell except what we make of our lives here on earth) saw quite clearly the image of a shimmering white golden angel with enormous white wings lifting my mother off the blacktop parking lot and into it’s arms. There, held in safety, my tiny mother was able to cry all the tears she never could. She was released from her pain, she was released from her suffering, from her alcoholism, from the battering, from all the demons that tormented her. My mother was free.

9. 13 years ago, my mother was 46 years old.

10. 13 years ago, my mother died and the world lost a beautiful, funny, fierce woman.

11. 13 years ago we lost a piece of ourselves.

12. Today, like every other day, I remember my mother.

13. Today, if you can, take a moment to remember yours.