This year we are celebrating the first post-lockdown festivity on Sunday 10 May:
A festivity that this year takes on a slightly different flavor and which we never really want to celebrate like never before.
Best wishes to all mothers in the world, but especially to those who are no longer here.
In a video call with the writer Lella Di Marino, we spoke together about this wonderful day and in particular the attention goes to the excruciating pain of those who lost their mothers during this terrible period of pandemic.
The loss of the mother is, however, always a tragic moment regardless of the moment.
The tragic scenarios we have witnessed in these days have recalled the writer the moments of her mother’s loss, where a silence that she did not want to accept made her feel bad. And so, it is that with words full of pain, but full of love, she expressed her discomfort in this letter, where she compares her lived moments and those of the pandemic:
“For all the mothers in the world who have gone away, in the silence of this absurd pandemic”
you don’t know how much I thought of you in the immobility of this long quarantine. For the first time since you left, I breathed a sigh of relief. Only the idea of that atrocity, of that excruciating loneliness, caused me such pain that I, who with words got along well enough, would not have been able to find one to be able to tell it.
Poor mothers turned away without disturbing, with the siren on, in foreign hands, to suddenly become astronauts, entrusted to a bubble.
Poor mothers, grandmothers in love, that if they had the chance to see their grandchildren, in order not to frighten them, they would have taken air and invented a funny story for them: “Grandmother is rehearsing to go to the moon”.
Dear Mama, I relived your last breaths and for the first time, I breathed a sigh of relief.
You always said that you were not afraid of dying, and that when the Lord would have wanted you with you, you would not have been unprepared.
And ready you found yourself, in a silence that is not scary.
You only had a wish that you often repeated like a lullaby, to see us, your children and then go.
And so, it was mother, in that quiet that she already knew beyond, in the little strength that was granted to you and in your closed eyes, you gave us caresses.
Poor mothers, in search of affections, perhaps stolen a kiss from a window. And thanks to good eyes, behind a visor, in tired hands wrapped in protections, a greeting in a suffocated breath reached them through a cellphone.
Dear mom, that coffin just didn’t want to let you in. Skinny, huge for your now minute remains. I was screaming in pain. It was excruciating, it was accumulated, it was angry, because I had so many things to say to you, but I hadn’t done it.
Coffins parading with and as soldiers: orderly, obedient, unaware of their destination.
Escorted with your heart in pieces and your eyes off, in the name of the homeland. Our land, our homeland, our mothers.
Dear mother, a few days earlier you had given me a great gift, a love message, in code, it is clear, sibylline, between the lines, but you don’t know mom, how important it was for me.
“Beloved, adored children, it is we, the mothers, those who have gone away. Don’t be sad, don’t worry, we were aware of what was happening. God asked us, you know? Well yes, He was honest, you wouldn’t have said that, would you? Take us, we are here, we are ready, but leave our children, they do not, do not touch them “.
Dear mother, now the words are over, those spoken, those that make noise. Now the silence full of love remains.
No trouble … it’s a mother!
Pain, loneliness, going away giving the last smile … is a mother!
A kiss from a window, recovering an unacknowledged breath … she is a mother!
A coffin set aside who knows where, without even a flower…. she is mother!
A message of love, a sense of peace … she is a mother!
Mothers, born to give life, death by taking pain on them!
Silence … is mother!
Lella Di Marino
Being a mother is the word for excellence, the essence of existence because we are all children of a mother.