My mother really was a saint

Momma had coal black hair and eyes just as dark against her Celtic skin. Yes, she looked like those black Irish ancestors sans the blue eyes that Granny had.

She suffered lots of stress in her life: getting married "late" (at 25), not having kids right away, and when she had them, she nearly died.

Momma was stubborn, though. (Dad loved her for that.) After nearly dying and losing her first baby, she kept going until the rest of us were born. She finally was where she wanted to be: a mother of four children, just like all of her siblings (except for her old maid sister Maisie). Granny was pleased with all 24 grand kids. Momma was her baby, and she finally had her own brood of kids. Gramps and Granny absolutely loved being overrun by little (and big) kids at their house.

But, the happiness was short lived. In the prime of her life, Momma found out she had a terminal disease, something she would not get now, but then, they didn't know how to prevent it.

Momma died in her 40s. We were very sad. One of Momma's friends ran a local newspaper and published a long, sweet unofficial obituary for her, which I still have here somewhere. I couldn't bear to read it more than once, so I put it away.

However, I cannot imagine being a child who would have to write this obituary. We had much sadness in our home, but we were loved so much, and so rich in comparison.

I mourn not for the dead lady, but for her children.