On the night my mother died, the Boston Red Sox 
won the World Series after 86 years 
ending the Curse of the Bambino, a curse incurred
when they sold Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees
in January of 1920, just before 
my mother turned 9 years old.

My mother gave no power to curses
she looked at the world through 
lenses ground and polished by hope 
and faith, a steadfast belief in the 
goodness of humankind. 
But after looking through rose-colored glasses, 
for 93 years, she had seen enough.

On the night my mother died I slept 
fitfully, while my son and his dad watched 
the winning game on television in the next room, 
sounds of cheering a painful counterpoint to the 
loss and devastation in my world that night.

I stumbled out of bed just as the game was over, 
my son, his smile stretching from one adorable 
4-year-old ear to the other, still young and innocent
knowing little about death or curses, raised
his fist in triumph and shouted,
“We won, Mom, we won.”




©2023marthahurwitz