I’ve been thinking a lot about my parents lately. Maybe it’s because this year marks milestone anniversaries of their deaths.
Mom died five years ago this month, not long after the pandemic shut down pretty much everything. She died on what would’ve been her and Dad’s 67th wedding anniversary.
Sept. 11th will mark 25 years since Dad died—on my husband’s birthday, and exactly one year before the other 9/11.
I don’t know that you ever truly get over losing your parents. You go on with your life, of course—your own partner, kids, grandkids, work, friends, errands, the whole rhythm of the day-to-day. And if I’m being honest, there are stretches when I don’t think about my parents at all.
But then something stops me—grabs hold, really—and suddenly I see their faces like it was yesterday.
That happened recently when I opened my mother’s antique porcelain jewelry box—the one I procured after she died. Trimmed in gold and adorned with romantic Victorian figures, it had sat on Mom and Dad’s bedroom dresser for as long as I can remember.
The thing about this particular jewelry box of Mom’s is that it didn’t hold much jewelry at all. It was more of a trinket chest that she treated like a junk drawer, a home for random receipts, old keys, rubber bands, a cuticle scissor, nail files, hair pins, paper clips, scribbled notes and the like, with an occasional bangle bracelet or clip earring thrown in.
I tossed some of these items shortly after Mom passed — though honestly, I couldn’t bring myself to part with much, no matter how unnecessary — then quickly repurposed the box as a repository for my own assorted odds and ends. I figured I’d just continue to build on her legacy in my own somewhat disheveled way.
But when a few weeks ago I couldn’t get the top of it to close, I knew it was time for another clean-out.
And that’s when I found it—stuck between some paper scraps and a laminated picture of my brother in a white prom tuxedo: a weathered snapshot of her and Dad dressed like they’d time-traveled from the American Revolution.
Dad was sporting knee-length breeches, a tricorn hat and what looked suspiciously like a string tie (did they even have string ties back then?). Mom had a shawl draped over her shoulders, a skirt that brushed her ankles and her hair styled à la Princess Leia —looking like a cross between Betsy Ross and someone doing her best with whatever she could pull out of her closet at the last minute. The date on the back of the photo said 1976. Clearly, they were at a Bicentennial costume party.
I stared at the picture, equal parts amused and mystified.
Truth is, I had no idea they’d even been to a costume party, like ever. Suddenly I had a million questions. Where was this taken? Who threw the party? Did they pick out those outfits together? Did they laugh the whole night? Did they dance?
And then it hit me: I’ll never know because now, there is no one to ask.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about the questions I never asked my parents —about who they were before they became “Mom” and “Dad,” and again after my brother and I left home. What parts of their lives did I miss? What did I never think to see?
It’s not the big, sweeping life lessons I regret missing—it’s the little, ordinary things. The everyday stuff. Who was my mom’s first kiss, and when did it happen? What movie made my dad cry? What did they love most about being empty nesters?
It wasn’t that I didn’t care—I just didn’t ask. To be fair, I was busy growing up, wrapped up in my own story. And I guess I thought there’d always be more time.
But time has a way of sneaking up on you. And now I find myself with this wonderful, ridiculous photo and no one left to explain it.
Memory is funny like that. We think we remember people, but mostly we remember the version we knew—the familiar roles they played. Mom as Mom. Dad as Dad. Sure, I asked some things over the years, but not enough. Not about the people they were outside of those roles.
I think a lot of us are guilty of that. We assume the stories will get passed down somehow. That there will always be someone else asking — or someone left to answer.
So let this be a gentle nudge: ask the questions. Ask your parents, grandparents, older relatives, mentors. Ask about their first apartment, their worst date, their favorite candy bar, the vacation they still talk about. Ask even if it feels small. Especially if it feels small.
Because sometimes all it takes is one unexpected photo, tucked haphazardly into an old jewelry box, to remind you how much you didn’t know—and how much you still want to, even all these years later.
