I am a person who had a mother. And now I don’t.

my mother and her parents circa 1943

The 1950 Census has been made public and I recently found my 1942-born mother living with her parents and siblings in Munhall. She was seven at the time the census taker visited. It is the first official proof I have from her “permanent record” — she was a little girl living with her family, her happiest years by her own admission.

I did not know her family lived in Munhall in 1950 — I knew they had lived ‘briefly’ in Homestead per her stories, but I just assumed they relocated to Bethel Park while was was very young. Most of her stories are tied to the South Hills. I doubt it was her consciously attempting to erase history — her bout of encephalitis literally erased her history and her short-term memory.

It is good to have some new fact that captures my curiosity, something to distract me from the fact that I am now motherless on Mother’s Day.

It was never a big deal in our family. No regular rituals. It wasn’t a deliberate cruelty, just another example of the thoughtless way we meandered through each other’s lives without clear boundaries and protocol, even traditions. Mothers’ Day always felt like a holiday I *should* observe (along with Father’s Day) because that’s what the world wanted.

Now, my mother has died. Her grave marker is not permanent yet. I don’t have a copy of her…