Mother's Day Without Mom: Wearing Red Shoes, Remembering To Dance

I think as time passes, and Mother's Day arrives, it's easy to just do a post on social media saying, "Miss you, Mom," or "Happy Mother's Day," or something generic, without capturing the essence of who my mother was.

But the thing is, on Aug. 22, it will be 25 years since I lost my mother. 25 years — almost my son's entire lifetime. So most of the people I know now have no memory of my mother. No memory of her big smile, her ready laugh, her impetuous, fun-loving side, her penchant for shopping and dessert instead of dinner, for a rum and coke and dancing the cha cha.

My mother was a woman who lived for Christmas, who shopped all year so there was a huge pile of gifts for me under every tree. She decorated her entire office at the Bank of Bermuda for Christmas and when she died, her friends and co-workers not only brought a Christmas tree to her funeral, in the sweltering August heat, but decorated her special Christmas table at the office, for years after, in her memory.

My mother brought me to Coney Island in the summer, even though she hated the beach, and played endless water gun games until she won me a prize. She took me to Asbury Park once — our favorite summer place — on a winter day, buttoning up my winter coat and telling me we were heading out on an adventure. We drank orangeade and walked the boardwalk and played carnival games and, for that one day, even though I was a pudgy little girl and painfully shy, for that one day, I was beautiful.

(Lisa Finn)

She loved to dress in bright colors and sparkly tops (unlike me in my boring black!) And she loved, loved, loved red shoes.

When I graduated from college, I, with the attitude of disdain that only a twentysomething art-school daughter can muster, was mortified by her bright red heels. Her favorite movie was "The Red Shoes," about an ill-fated ballet dancer, and it must have touched a chord in her heart, because she loved nothing more than shiny red shoes — and the song, "Lady In Red." I bought her a cassette of that song years ago, when I was traveling, the perfect souvenir.

This Mother's Day, I'll be playing that song again for her. And I'll be wearing my red leather Tieks ballet flats on Mother's Day, proudly, in her honor.

Living, dancing, laughing with my own son. . .all the things she would be so happy to see me doing. Because really, isn't that the best we can do, after they're gone? Live on, love on, and carry the best of who they were with us, forever.