Yesterday was my mother’s name day. Saint Elijah. Ilinca was a common name in the small village in the plains of Oltenia, where my mother was born, during the war. Grandma was telling how grandpa came from the front, on leave, in an early autumn. When he got home, grandma was in the garden. She was reaching to pick some plums, and Grandpa noticed the roundness of her belly. He frowned. It was not uncommon for women in the country’s villages to “fraternize” with the soldiers. You couldn’t blame them, times were hard and they did whatever it took to survive. Not grandma. Noticing his frown, he said to him, instead of greeting him: “now it moved for the first time, remember when you were on leave and calculate”. Grandpa calculated quickly in his mind, smiled and took her in his arms. Actually… that’s what I like to think, that he took her in his arms. In our family, we didn’t have the habit of holding each other, saying “I love you” or “I missed you”. Or forgiving.
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My mother last celebrated her name day when she was 31 years old. Someone had wronged her on that St. Elijah day, and since then her name day was like a pain in the heart, not a celebration. She could never forgive the person who wronged her, and so she punished herself, suffering every year on the day she should have rejoiced and celebrated the saint whose name she bore. I wanted to give her flowers, gifts, enjoy that day together, but she frowned every time I wanted to celebrate her. For a long time I didn’t know why she ignored her name day, she told me the truth when I was a teenager. I tried to get her to change her mind, but I was unsuccessful. I don’t know if she ever forgave the man who wronged her then, the man with whom she shared 20 years of her life. My father. He died before her, and she still didn’t want to celebrate her name day. Saint Elijah had become a life sentence.
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Yesterday I put on a nice dress and went to visit her. I didn’t wish her “happy name day”. When I got to her, I looked around. Silence, peace, thick shade of trees… She didn’t need me to wish her “happy name day”, but just to be there, with her, for a few minutes. Quietly, without sentimental outpourings, as it always was when we were together. No unnecessary tears in front of a grave with her picture on it. Just a dimly burning candle. That’s all. I smiled at her and left.
It has been 22 years since she is there, in the neighborhood cemetery, 200 meters from the house where she lived, the house where I was born and where I still live. Sometime before she left, he went to the priest to confess. He told her that she was suffering from the sin of pride. She was not in the habit of going to confession, it was an effort for her, but she was sick and afraid of death. And the priest did not comfort her, did not alleviate her pain, but told her that she is a sinner, she has the sin of pride. She never went to confess again.
Indeed, she was proud. She had a free and full soul. For her time, she was an avant-garde, almost a feminist. She didn’t know what “feminist” meant, there was no such thing in Romania in the 70s and 80s. She was always one step ahead of the women of those years, and the conservative housewives looked down on her. Even one of her friends, whom she pulled out of her man’s fists many times, covered in blood. Even she scolded her for divorcing: “he does not beat you, why are you divorcing?”. Your husband beats you, why are you NOT divorcing?
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Yesterday, after I left the cemetery, I walked around the neighborhood. My mother would have loved the present times. The multitude of books, information, freedom of expression, freedom of movement, shops, mobile phone, computer… Maybe she could have become a blogger just like me, who knows? 😊
They say we are the average of the 5 people we spend the most time with. It is true, for the present time. But to understand our whole Being, it is equally true that we are the descendants of our ancestors. From there we started, we are a leaf of a huge tree with deep and strong roots. Regardless of the color, size and shape of the leaf, we are part of that tree. Let us never forget that. I am the descendant of my mother, and she was the descendant of my grandmother, the grandmother was the descendant of my great-grandmother… Happy name day, mom! Happy name day, grandma! Happy name day to all of us!
