Esther

 

Ramblings of a Retired Mind

The Award

I knew she was sick. Her body was frail, but her mind remained sharp. She may have been down to ninety pounds, but nothing was going to stop her from seeing her beloved grandson receive his award.

The trip from Chicago to Washington, D.C., would be difficult—airport lines, cab rides, and long days of exploring our nation’s capital. She knew her limits. She would go slow, steady, and never let anyone rush her.

From an early age, everyone recognized my son’s remarkable artistic talent. It came naturally to him, and his grandmother was his biggest cheerleader. Her house was filled with his drawings, proudly displayed for anyone who visited. The award—presented by Hallmark through the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards—recognized his detailed drawing of a busy street scene. She couldn’t have been prouder. The trip to Washington would be unforgettable.

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The Journey

The winning artwork was to hang in the Corcoran Gallery of Art, home to the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design, now part of George Washington University.

We stayed in a small hotel near Washington Circle. My mother looked so fragile—thin and pale, far older than her sixty-seven years. I watched as she moved carefully, determined not to stumble. Yet despite her frailty, her energy filled the room. Mom was a force of nature—small in stature, enormous in spirit. Wherever she went, the party followed.

That first evening, we found a cozy Italian restaurant. Mom ordered meatball soup and spent most of the hour moving one meatball after another from one side of the bowl to the other. Eating had become painful, but her determination was unwavering. She would not let anything stop her from seeing her grandson honored. I watched quietly, knowing she’d need medical care once we returned home. But for now, this moment—this trip—was everything to her.

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The Ceremony

The next day, we walked the National Mall. Mom moved slowly but with purpose. Later, at the Holocaust Museum, the haunting exhibits brought tears to all of us. By lunch, she was exhausted. She picked at a salad—two tomatoes, one cucumber—and washed it down with iced tea. The big event was that evening.

When we arrived at the Corcoran Gallery, the room buzzed with excitement—proud parents, grandparents, teachers, and young artists everywhere. My son’s art teacher led us to the wall where his piece hung. Mom’s eyes glistened as she pointed to the drawing. “He’s so talented,” she whispered, a tear tracing her cheek.

As servers passed hors d'oeuvres, Mom barely touched hers. The air grew thick with anticipation. The awards began, names called alphabetically—starting with the A’s. It would be a long wait before they reached the L’s. With each name, cheers rippled through the crowd. I could see the excitement building on her face, the pride glowing in her eyes.

Then, it happened.
They skipped his name.

I saw her stiffen, anger flashing across her face. “They missed him!” she said, starting toward the stage. I grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?” “I’m going to make them say his name!”

There was no stopping her. Despite her weakness, she pushed through the crowd, determination propelling her forward.

When she reached the front, the announcer was finishing: “Annette Zach. We are so proud of all the amazing artists here today. This night is yours!”

My mother reached out, grabbing the announcer’s arm. “You left off my grandson’s name,” she pleaded. The woman looked startled. “What is your grandson’s name?” she asked. Mom told her. The woman’s face softened. She apologized, but it was too late.

My son tried to comfort her, insisting it didn’t matter. But Mom couldn’t be consoled. Eventually, we all settled down and tried to enjoy the rest of the evening.

By the next morning, though, something had changed. She seemed smaller somehow—older, weaker than the night before.

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The Last Day

On our final day, we visited Arlington National Cemetery. The endless rows of white headstones stretched before us, solemn and silent. When we reached President Kennedy’s grave, Mom grew quiet. She had always been one of his biggest admirers. Gently, she placed a small stone beside his resting place—as if to let him know she had come.

The next morning, we flew home to Chicago. My son never left his grandmother’s side. They spoke in whispers, their private world closed to the rest of us. With each hour, I saw her color return. Her spirit seemed to lift again.

That trip would be our last together as a family. Four months later, my mother was gone.

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Remembering

I still have a photo of her sitting on a bench outside the Lincoln Memorial—back straight, legs crossed, pride shining from her face as she looked at her grandson. I keep that picture close to my heart.

There are never enough days, never enough years, no matter how long we have. It’s the memories that keep our loved ones alive.

When I look at my son’s artwork hanging on our wall, I think of that trip—of my mother’s courage, her love, and her unbreakable spirit. My heart feels heavy, yet full. I would give anything for just one more hour with her—an hour she’d no doubt spend telling me, once again, how proud she was of her grandchildren.