Danielle Ramos

Grief doesn’t disappear; it changes. These were the quiet signs that my memories of my mom were becoming filled with love instead of only heartbreak.

My mom lived in a beautiful, quaint New Jersey town in a modest brick house that beamed with love. She and my Dad permanently settled there after leaving our native Brooklyn.

A few years before, they took a small detour in Pennsylvania to live in the land of the groundhog, Punxsutawney, while Dad opened a medical practice. It was a culture shock for my Mom, a native Brooklynite.

My Dad emigrated from Peru and, as a preacher’s son, had grown accustomed to moving and living all over. Yet even he couldn’t settle fully into Punxsy.

The biggest detraction was that it was a 6–8 hour drive to Brooklyn depending on traffic, so when they wanted to see my sister, me, and our kids, it wasn’t a hop, skip, and jump away.

This greatly distressed Mom, not to mention me. I was in my early twenties and had a new baby.​​

Mom and I would talk 3–4 times a day and fill each other in on our day, our pets, my daughter, work, the latest product we loved, and what we were making for dinner.

No matter where Mom has lived, I have always felt intensely close to her despite distance.

The truth is that I still do.

Realizing this was not the life they wanted, Mom and Dad moved to the cutest town in New Jersey. I’ll never forget learning how close they would be to us.

My Dad loaded us all up in his van and took us to their new house in New Jersey for the first time. It was under an hour when they said, “Guess what? We’re here!” They were so entirely excited, and we all screamed in the backseat, not believing they would be so close by.

The years passed. I had three kids, and they loved nothing more than being able to go stay at Nanny’s house. We were there every holiday, summer and winter vacation, and most weekends.

Often I would drop the kids off at Mom’s and then head to work in Manhattan via N.J. Transit.

When I would head back after work, Mom often met me at the train station with my kids. The ding-ding of the train as it barreled into the station was exciting.

I adored finding my kids sitting on Mom’s lap as they furiously waved at me through the train car window.

Fast forward over 20 years and I found myself on the same train to get to my Mom after she got unexpectedly sick. For six weeks in the summer of 2019, I traveled between New York and New Jersey almost daily.

Suddenly the ding-ding of the train became harrowing. Listening for the Northeast Corridor boardings became grueling. “Attention, please, N.J. Transit train is now boarding.”

When the conductor mentioned my Mom’s town, I would recoil as my brain could not accept that this trip, the one that brought such immense, joyful memories, was now a hurried rush to get to my Mom in ICU and then later, in hospice.

Dad would meet me up at the station, and we’d spend the day in the hospital, picking the brains of Mom’s medical team, holding her hand, playing her favorite music, and willing her to live.

When it became overwhelming, as it often did, we would retreat to the cafeteria. I’d get a diet peach Snapple to help quench my thirst in the intense summer heat.

My eyes water as I write these words like it just happened, but it has been almost 5 years.

In the early days, I avoided Penn Station like the plague. Around the same time, we had one of our own, and no one traveled much during the pandemic.

When I did go back, it was out of necessity, and it was a struggle each time.

Today, I’m writing this from a crowded New Jersey transit car. I’m on the way to see my good friend for lunch. It is a voluntary trip, one that I want to go on.

It’s also a sign that I’m healing. I will think of Mom when I travel. Of course, when don’t I think of her? I still, in the back of my head, feel a somber twinge of sadness when I see and hear all the familiar aspects of the trip, the rumble of the train, the wait at Penn Station, the sight of her stop, but it won’t reduce me to tears today.

I may feel a tear or two build up, but they will stay inside my eyelids rather than flow so freely that I have to pull out my sunglasses and tissues.

I will have a good day. I might not even cry later on when I get home. But I might, and that’s ok, too.

Another way I realized I’m healing was just two weeks ago. It was a hot day, and I was so thirsty, so I stopped in the corner store and reached for an iced tea when I saw the diet peach Snapple staring me right in the face.

It was almost as if it knew I wanted it, had missed it, and was daring me to pick it up. In the past, I would shudder at even seeing the bottle, and then grab a drink that I liked much less because I didn’t think I’d be able to withstand the memory.

Tasting the flavor would bring me right back to those long days at the hospital.

This time, while standing in the grocery store, I thought of my Mom, the stubborn Brooklynite who I know would not be pleased watching me deny myself anything I wanted.

I grabbed the peach Snapple and drank it, and to my surprise, I enjoyed it. I felt like I stood up to my sorrow and took action to fight for my happiness.

You would think riding a train and having an iced tea wouldn’t be profound, but I know my Mom was saying, “Atta girl, Yellie,” as she continues to teach me life lessons, even now.