A dear friend in Shepherdstown has been emailing for several weeks to keep us abreast of what’s happening with his mother, a sweet little Italian lady we call our Mama Mia. She’s 86, has just suffered a massive stroke and the doctors don’t hold out much hope. Our friend and his brother are her caregivers, and they are in a sad waiting mode.

We know the feeling. Bob’s Mom died so quickly from a heart attack that he couldn’t even get to the hospital on time to say goodbye. My darling mother died of lung cancer 15 years ago while I was caring for her, a death incredibly painful to watch. I wonder: Do you ever get over losing your Mom? Or forget the date she left?

With Mother’s Day almost here, I also remember a message she sent me after she was gone that keeps me going. But first, let me tell you a bit about my folks’ 60-year marriage.

Pauline, Irish and sassy, and Julio Rosario, Italian and somber, met in high school. Both were good-looking and were hopelessly attracted to one another. But both had so many admirers that, rather than risk rejection, they dated other people. Both, however, kept their eyes open and waited for an opening.

Finally it came. Mom’s best friend threw a party and, at Mom’s fervent suggestion, she invited my Dad. When the party broke up, Mom saw her chance and asked Dad for a ride home.

About halfway there she purred, “Julio, this is a beautiful car.” He thanked her and continued to watch the road. This, she thought, was going to be more of a challenge than she imagined.

She tried again. “Julio, have you ever had ignition trouble?”

He shook his head.

Mom waited until they came to a stop sign, reached across the seat and pulled the key out of the ignition. “Well,” she said sweetly, “you have now.”

She wouldn’t give the key back, she said, until he kissed her. He did—and neither one of them was ever the same again. All other beaus and admirers disappeared when they gazed into each other’s eyes that night—and saw heaven there.

Only 19 when they ran off to get married, they saw to it that nothing—not children, not the death of a child, nor business failures or successes, nor in-law problems, nor illness—ever dimmed their love story.

I read once that the best thing a man can do for his children is to love their mother. I agree. We kids knew that their relationship was primary, and that it was vital to our own security. When the four of us saw them hugging and kissing, or talking through their differences instead of shouting them out, or laughing at something only they found funny, we knew our home was as solid as Kilimanjaro.

When I married at 19, my parents emphasized to me and to my new husband how vital it was that we never let the romance go out of out marriage. They even gave us some tips.

When I went home to care for Mom in her last days, I discovered that when Dad went into her room alone, it was best to turn off the bedside monitor that sat on the dining room table. (Dad used it to listen to Mom’s breathing at night.) Those moments were filled with tender declarations of their love for each other, and frankly, sometimes with flirting so outrageous that it cannot be repeated here. Yes, they were lovers right to the end.

A few weeks after Mom died, my bro called. Dad had asked him and my two sisters to divide Mom’s things between us. Was there anything I wanted?

Yes, I said. I wanted the delicate pink and white cotton nightgown she had on when she died. Is that all, Thom asked. Yes, I said, that’s all, I said. Oh, and the slippers to match.

When the box came—just in time for Mother’s Day that year—it had the those things in it, and lots of other items of clothing my sibs thought I might enjoy. Tears filled my eyes as I went through them. Her multi-colored woolen cape, some of her pastel blouses, three colorful cotton shifts, one of her flowered sweaters ... there was even one of the floppy little sun hats she wore to protect her fair skin when she and Dad went fishing.

And then I found it, tucked into a corner, under everything else, almost as an afterthought. A worn pair of black lace panties.

But I knew they were not an afterthought. I knew that pair of scanty panties was a gift—and a reminder—from Mom.

Excuse me, dear reader. I have a date with Bob tonight.

Donna loves to hear from her readers. You can reach her at WriteforPub@aol.com