Columnist Sally Friedman gives readers a look at her world.

I always cry on Mother's Day. It's almost a family tradition. I cry easily, especially when it comes to motherhood. Of all the ways I define myself, that single word, "mother," seems to have a holiness all its own.

I always need some time alone on this day in May because it carries with it past, present, future, hopes, joy and sadness.

I'll no doubt spend a part of this Sunday morning alone in my cluttered home office staring at past photos of Mom snapped by my sister Ruth, the family photographer, bless her.

Ruthie somehow captured a woman in a bright red suit, against a background of trees with a broad smile, who knew she had about two weeks to live as a marauder called lymphoma attacked her.

I love that photo because it spoke of what we all knew and loved about Mom. It seemed to say Ah, I still have today!

I'm guessing that in so many households today, there are similarly cherished photos that take families back to memories of a matriarch that is no longer there.

Mother memories never fade, with or without photos, for those of us lucky enough to be blessed with moms who loved us beyond all reason.

We buried my mother on my birthday, a quirk of the calendar, nearly 15 years ago. I dont think there's been a day since that I didn't think of her, and not because she was a saint, but because she wasn't. She was real, sometimes a bit overbearing, but always devoted.

Nobody loved us the way she did. I need to believe that she knows her voice, her wisdom, her common sense, and her love still live in me. I hope they always will.

On the day we buried his great-grandmother, one of our grandsons, the poetic Jonah, who was about eight at the time, saw me crying. He came up to me, tugged at my sleeve and said to me, "Don't cry. Mom-Mom is in the wind and the rain and the snow. She's always with us." And somehow, she is.

One of the joys of my life that intertwined with Mom, was seeing her as a great-grandmother to a flock of great-grandchildren. The gift of her long life allowed for that generational gift.

Also, on this special day, I love to share my own motherhood, and my gratitude that I became a mother at 22, when I barely knew who I was. I will admit that I made plenty of mistakes, nearly drowned infant Jill in her pink baby bathtub out of sheer terror. Her father was fortunately around for a rescue. Baby Amy arrived two years later, delivered quite unexpectedly by her astonished dad. Therein lies a tale, an early warning sign of Amy's mad dash through life. Nancy, far more sedate, was born in the hospital much to her nervous father's relief.

I think it would be fair to say that these three daughters forever altered our lives, our spirits and our dreams. They have been our link to immortality, joy, exhaustion and pride. Whatever else I may do in this life, they are my best work aside from the grandchildren they have added to our clan.

And here we are in this strange era of a most unwelcome pandemic. Although many of us may be denied real hugs and cheeks to kiss, we can still celebrate motherhood, however compromised.

Motherhood can't be wiped away or abandoned. The word itself has a sweetness that seems to soften life's hard edges.

Nobody or anything can take that away.

Sally Friedman is a freelance writer. Contact her at pinegander@aol.com.

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Friedman: Remembering Mom with love and tears - News - The Intelligencer