She had forgotten the incident.

Used to be there weren't any pills to take to treat depression. One had to battle out of it. With mind over matter, I guess. My mom was depressed. For too long, it seemed to me, after my father committed suicide. Leaving mom with three children to raise. I was the oldest, at 13.

A year or so later, mom was still depressed. And it was getting to me. I thought it was time for mom to cheer up, and get on with life. Even then, still in my early teens, I didn't relish living in a household permeated by pessimism.

One night I confronted mom. Told her I had enough of the doom and gloom. I became angry. I caught mom's attention by picking up a porcelain lamp and throwing it to the floor, smashing it to smithereens. "Get over it," I yelled.

Well, eventually mom got over it. She married again. This time, it was a long and happy marriage. But when my step-father died, mom went into depression again in her waning years. Until she died at 88. Used to visit mom in those days. And it was difficult spending a weekend with her in depression. Reminded me of the time after dad died. But this time, I didn't get angry. Didn't toss any lamps. I tried to console and comfort mom.

I guess I wished mom could have been happy all her life. But at least she lived a long life, and had mostly happy years.

Toward the end of her life, I reminded mom about the time I flipped out and broke one of her favorite lamps. She had forgotten the incident. --Jim Broede