As spoken at Mom’s celebration of life, reprinted here for those who were not in attendance. (Photo for context
Good morning.
Before I say anything else, I want to acknowledge the banana in the room. As many of you know, yellow was Mom’s color—not in the arbitrary way we choose a favorite color, but as a symbol of how she lived her life.
Yellow is joy.
Yellow is light.
Yellow is warmth.
Yellow is Mom.
And she would love this. She’d say it was fun, joyful, a little crazy—and therefore perfectly me. Mom always had my back like that. She supported every bit of my quirkiness and creativity. She never asked me to tone anything down (though frequently she’d ask me to keep it down). I know I was a loud kid, but I never felt like I didn’t have a voice—or her patient ear to listen to whatever absurdity I was uttering. She lit in me the creative fuse that still burns brightly to this day.
And that brings me to one of my earliest memories of her—one that shaped me more than I realized.
Growing up, we learn to associate monsters with fear. The experience is universal. The noises from the closet. The faceless shadows in the corner of the room. The cold air on the back of your neck as you scramble up the basement stairs before the darkness can catch you.
But for me, the idea of “monster” had a completely different meaning. Maybe as a way to disarm fear itself, Mom invented something she called the “Mommy Monster.” It was basically an advanced game of “I’m gonna getcha,” complete with her best monster growl—but instead of terror, it brought squeals of laughter.
I know I was far too young to remember it consciously. Maybe the memory was stirred later, watching her play the same game with Betsy. But still—somehow—I feel it deep in my soul. That warm sense of being loved and looked after that only a mother can offer.
And those moments—the playful, absurdly enchanting ones—become the invisible threads that bind a mother and son long after childhood fades.
And finally, here’s one more elegant thread to tug at—this one of the cosmic sort.
In the end, in a final act of both dignity and defiance, Mom chose to leave us nineteen years to the day after dad. Same date. Same moon overhead. In astronomy, that’s called a Metonic cycle—a nineteen-year lunar return. On November 9th a nearly full moon returned to the same spot in the sky, as if to stand silent witness. There’s something achingly beautiful about that timing. It feels, to me, like she waited for the right moment to step into the same bright yellow light that Pops stepped into years before.
Mom taught me that love shows up in small moments and echoes across a lifetime.
And today, standing up here looking like some ridiculous bald banana—telling a story she would love—I feel those echoes.
Thank you, Mom.
For your light.
For your laughter.
And most of all, thanks for having me.
Mannino Acid 