I have mixed feelings about Sunday, May 13. The sentiment behind it is as wholesome as motherhood and apple pie. The need to set aside but a single day out of every 365 to honor the cause of our existence is a curiosity, if not downright patronizing.
Maybe my mixed feelings also hark from the relationship I had with my Mother. It ended abruptly, in the worst way.
September 1959. I had just gotten home from grade school. Rose Apar, part-time beautician now that she mothered three sons 9, 12 and 18, was with a client in the makeshift hair salon in our Long Island Cape Cod home’s rec room.
