Mary Cichocki

Sue and I felt so special that we could call you that (Mama and Papa Kahn), like you were, even if just a little bit, ours. Mom and Dad never minded either. I think they liked the idea too, that we were all sort of family by choice. I have so many memories of those magical years, its hard to even know where to start.

One of my earlier memories was at Forley Street. I think that house is what inspired me to first fall in love with old things. That love has stayed with me to this day. I remember the porch, the yard, the big open living room / dining room area and the kitchen, even the narrow hallway and bedrooms upstairs. And one of the most vivid things I remember was you, singing. You sang, and you hummed, all the time. I don’t really remember you doing that everywhere, but when I think of that house, I do. Sue and I used to sleep over with Jean and we’d scare ourselves half to death watching TV late at night. You’d always say to us, don’t get spooked girls, and you went to bed knowing full well that that’s exactly what we would do. One of my most prized possessions are the antique ceramic crocks you gave me, and I think they date back to that house. I certainly remember them on the stairs at the Jackson Heights house.

One of my favorite memories was a night I spent (I think it was just me and not Sue and I for some reason) with you for dinner at the Jackson Heights house. Chicken Parmesan and martinis. Pop made the martinis and I only had a little but Meryl drank all of hers. I’m sure they were “modified” but I felt grown up. I remember helping with the dishes and Meryl and Pop dancing around the kitchen.

I remember how hard you worked at your job. You’d come home with sore feet and melt into the couch. Pop would bring you a cocktail or ice tea. Why I would have been there at that time to see you come home, who knows. I was there a lot like a silent observer, feeling so lucky to be part of it.

I can’t tell you how many people I’ve told about having a birthday cake for Jesus on Christmas Eve. It may indeed be a southern tradition but for me it is still a just “you” sort of thing and one I think of every year, without exception, and smile. I often say a little silent happy birthday Jesus to myself, a kind of homage to those days.

I remember you took my hand at one time, when I was getting married. I don’t remember where or when it was, if it was at the wedding or before or after it, but your advice was so you and fitting to this day. “Be patient with him, Christine,” you said, “they need a lot from us to teach them how to be.” Not somber advice, but joyful, with a little shake of the head and happy lilt in your voice, that told me you knew of what you spoke.

I’ve missed you these years. I wish I could have had more of you in my life. Especially when my kids were young. They would have been so lucky to know you. But you gave me Meryl, and thanks to her (certainly not me). I think I will have her forever. I’ll take good care of her, you know. i promise.

With all my heart, Chris (Klein) Quinn

To my dear Meryl, Thinking of you and sending you much love during this sad time! I hope you can take comfort in knowing that your Mom was embraced by your boundless love and compassion! Sending you my deepest and heartfelt sympathies.

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
mary elizabeth frye – 1932

Lots of Love,
Donna Brodowski