Written by Christina Ely Milliman, in memory of Florence Sarah Pelletier Ely and Leonard Roscoe Ely

Published on Facebook, October 13, 2025

For the last week, I have been thinking about what my first memory of my mother is. This is a really difficult question, actually. I woke up thinking about it again this morning. I believe, though fuzzy like a dream, not crisp like a true memory, it is standing up in my crib in the bedroom at the top of the stairs of the old house. I have my arms raised, and though I cannot say it was Mom that picked me up, I cannot proclaim it could have been anyone else. It is dark in the room, which leads me to think it is nighttime. I was born 7 weeks early, and I am told that I was late to do every milestone as a baby and young child. I am sure that if standing, I probably could have climbed out of that crib, but I did not.

If not that, I cannot say it is with certainty a first memory, but I have two fond memories of my mother that are vivid. Being the youngest and very tiny as a child at that, I inevitably sat in the middle of the backseat of the car between my siblings. Every Sunday on the way to church, with no headrest in the way, I would watch my mother. She would unzip the purse on her lap, always a black one, take out her lipstick, lower the mirror and apply the pink, frosted tone. She would put it away and then take out her dress watch, bangle and wedding rings and put them on. Church or a family party were about the only times we would see these pieces, as before I was eight years old, my parents ran the family dairy farm, and her best jewelry could not be worn, except on special occasions.

The second vivid memory is sitting next to my mother in church. I would rest my head on her side and she would put her left arm around me. I could smell her Shalimar perfume. While resting in the security of her arm, often during the sermon, I would stare at my parents’ hands. They most often held hands in church, especially during the sermon. Their fingers intertwined, my father would rub her hand, back and forth with his thumb. I always thought it was so sweet, endearing and deeply caring. It warmed my heart then and still does now, a symbol of their enduring love.

Last Tuesday, as Brian and I sat together alone next to my mother’s casket at her burial, our own hands holding onto one another, I stared at the etching on their gravestone. The one my mother had chosen to have carved in pink granite to memorialize them when my Father passed so many years ago. It is a heart, with two hands holding one another. The female’s slight hand in the foreground with a simple band on the ring finger, just as she had always worn, thinned and smoothed by years of work and toil. I realized then that this memory held a place not just in my heart and mind, but it was a symbol for her of their enduring and everlasting love until the end of time.

Song: Cheek to Cheek by Tony Bennett and Lady Gaga