How am I supposed to feel about not recognizing my mother’s name?

I don’t know.

It was so shocking to hear it that I originally thought, Somebody has my last name? Hmm, that name is familiar…is there another York family in this congregation? Then I progressed on to, wait, hold on, that was my mother’s name. That’s my mother!

The rabbi was saying her name as part of the annual remembrance on her death day, which was September 15th. This year, in what I can only assume is some form of holy irony, my mother’s death day coincided with the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah. So, it was perfectly normal to have her name read aloud during services, and I should have expected it…but I didn’t recognize her name when it was read.

It wasn’t until about four names later that I had put all the facts together and gathered the wherewithal to stumble to my feet and acknowledge the fact that my mother is dead.

It was very moving for me when I connected the dots, but it took me a moment to connect the dots because it was the first time I had heard my mother’s name said aloud in years.

I hadn’t been expecting it and I didn’t recognize it.

It probably sounds particularly odd, perhaps even callous, that I would not recognize her name immediately when spoken. But in all the years since her death in 1994, there have only been a few times where I have been around people who would say her name at all. Usually only when I traveled to other places to visit her family, because no one around me on a regular basis ever got the chance to meet her.

Her life, and her death, was a lifetime ago for me.

Mother and I…somehwere? Don’t remember or recognize it. Possibly during one of our California visits, maybe. 1977.

I do remember her every day, as I’m still surrounded by things she owned (books, albums, jewelry) and influenced by her parenting (good, and bad). Her presence looms large, so it was profoundly moving to hear her name said aloud like that, in public, and yes, I cried.

On the other side of that coin, though, is my shame and horror that I didn’t recognize her name when it was spoken. The idea that there is a part of her that is so critical to her identity as a person, much less as my mother, that I just didn’t recognize, is horrifying.

My mother died nearly 30 years ago, though.

Was it inevitable that I would get to a point where my parents’ lives are so distant to my current existence that I would not recognize their names when somebody says them? Possibly.

Time is a river, yada yada yada.

I cried over her name. And then I cried again over my failure as a daughter to remember her name.

Given that I think about her every day, it seems odd to me that hearing her name would come as such a surprise…but there are ghosts, and then there are memories, and they are not the same thing.