A Pearl of Great Price

It was on this day thirty-six years ago that my mother died... 

I miss her very much, and not a moment goes by that I do not think of her.
 
I regret my rebellion towards the authority of my parents. I was a wild fourteen-year-old when my mother passed away. Sadly, she experienced a lot of grief, and she shed many tears over my bad behavior.

I know I put my mom through a lot of pain when I got into trouble, both at school and in my neighborhood. But we had many good times, too. And I prefer to remember the latter. Neither has the passing of time dimmed the memories of my mom. She was a beautiful woman, both physically and inwardly.

I miss my mother's companionship and care, her cooking, and her love. It seems as if it was only a few years ago that I sat at our little kitchen table on the sixth floor of our Bronx tenement, eating her chiffon cake and drinking a glass of ice-cold milk. 

​​She always waited for me to come home from school. Our apartment was warm, and an assortment of pleasant cooking odors would waft through our small kitchen, filling the rooms with good smells.

Our home was also filled with plants, as this was one of my mom's special hobbies. She loved plants and had them throughout our living room as well as on the fire escape during the summer.
 
Rightfully, her name was Pearl. She was generous, kind, and always giving. A simple homemaker, she was indeed a Pearl of great price.
 
D.B.