Marilyn Zelnick

From Her Husband 

Marilyn, for the last 57 years, you have been my home and my intimate Buddha.

It all began on the night of July 19, 1969, when we sat on the roof of that Montreal high-rise overlooking the shimmering downtown lights.

It was the day before the world watched Neil Armstrong land on the moon. I didn’t realize it then, but that evening marked the launch of the greatest journey of my life.

I was twenty-one with few prospects. I had a modest high school education, and because of my severe dyslexia, I never imagined I would progress academically.

Yet you saw something in me that I could not see in myself.

In the years that followed, you and your mother, Dea, gently gave me the confidence and the space to learn to read and write. Through your quiet faith in me, I eventually earned a bachelor’s degree in history and philosophy.

We married more than fifty years ago and raised two remarkable daughters, Shawna and Kimberly. Each carries half of your DNA.

I took the minimum math required in college. There, I learned one equation that matters today: ½ + ½ = 1. Marilyn, a part of you survives in Shawna and Kimberly. Together, they make you whole. Knowing that you live on through them brings me profound comfort. Marilyn, through Shawna and Kimberly, I still feel your presence.

Thank you for our grandchildren, Henry, Derek, and Aban. Thank you for the countless moments that became a LIFETIME—our lifetime. We watched our family grow. We laughed. We argued. We simply lived. Through you, I came to understand that there is nothing ordinary about spending more than fifty years loving the same person.

As we entered retirement, the final chapter was not one either of us would have written.

Vascular dementia gradually took away your independence, your words, and your memories. But it never compromised your unwavering love of Christ, or your faith and trust in Christ. Christ gave you great comfort and strength. And your faith taught me about the nature of God.

You maintained your radiant spirit and your irrepressible sense of humor. Sunshine warmed your face. There were your constant smiles. Moments of recognition. Music that reached us both. And the quiet comfort of simply holding your hand.

During those difficult years, we were blessed beyond measure by the kindness of our caregivers—Peggy, Mary, and Tammie—and by the steadfast friendship of neighbors such as Sandy Punch and Beverly Gregory. Each week, Cele brought your spiritual garden into our home. Ester kept it orderly. Together, all of these enablers helped make it possible for us to remain by each other’s side at home until the very end.

Marilyn, your quiet grace taught me that love is not measured by grand gestures. It is measured in thousands of ordinary days—sharing dinner, falling asleep beside each other every night, sitting together in silence, worrying about one another, and simply growing old together.

Caring for you was the greatest privilege of my life.

Goodbye, my Marilyn.

You have earned your rest. May you once again enjoy the freedom you cherished, the garden you lovingly nurtured, your independence, and the peace you so richly deserve.

Until we meet again, thank you for the life we shared.

From Her Daughter Kimberly 

Dear Mom,

You were born in Montreal on March 16, 1939.

Even when I was a kid, it seemed like a world and a lifetime away — at the end of the Great Depression and on the cusp of the Second World War.

Your dad, Ronald, had a twin sister, Mary. He was from a large Scottish family with a farm in Ontario. I never met him but from the pictures, I could see he had style and fabulous taste in dolls.

Your mum, Dea, grew up in Spokane. She had a flair for acting and starred in her college's musical theater productions before settling down.

You were the middle of three — older brother Ronnie was reportedly never home — too busy playing hockey. Your younger sister, Heather, shared your bedroom and became your best friend.

Your parents didn't have enough money to pay for both of you to have piano lessons, so you took the lessons and taught Heather how to play right alongside you.

You and Heather went to an incredibly small all-girls Catholic School in Montreal, where your parents bought a beautiful home with red shutters.

You reportedly had a bit of a temper. Heather told me they used to call you "Sparky."

No one here will be surprised to hear that you were an A+ student. Your grandfather teased you when you would proudly come home with a 100 on your spelling tests; he would ask you, why didn't you get 102? Drove you crazy.

You talked about your mom making the best rhubarb pies and your dad, who called himself the "Quack Doctor," being the one who stayed up with you and your brother and sister when you were sick.

After college, before you met dad, you loved fashion (short skirts in the freezing Canada cold) and travel — by boat (can you imagine?) — to Europe with your sister and your friend, Carol, once with your mum, where you spent your hard-earned money buying beautiful gold charms from every city you went to and made this bracelet.

And then you met dad, the night before the moon landing, and so began a truly great love story. When Shauna and I were little, we loved hearing stories about how you refused to go out with him the first six times he asked you. But he said he knew you liked him because, before turning him down, you would always linger on the phone when he called and laugh at all his jokes, so he knew it was only a matter of time. But mom, you knew a good thing when you saw it.

Seven years later, you got married to dad, over the objections of both of your families — and it wasn't long before Shauna came along and then me.

You were so so brave — with a toddler and new baby in tow — you bought into dad's California dream and moved to Orange County and then Solana Beach. Once again, you knew a good thing when you saw it.

You were an incredibly sweet mom. You read to us. Sang to us. When we started school, you went back too and after working tirelessly with Shauna as she worked through dyslexia and learning to read, you became the most amazing reading teacher.

All told, you spent 35 years teaching reading to struggling first graders — with patience and encouragement, free of judgment, so gentle — you literally taught hundreds of kids to read. What a legacy.

And what else? You loved beautiful clothes, your garden, Christmas carols, chocolates, impressionist art, Beatrix Potter, musicals, children's books.

You were not only beautiful, having somehow found the fountain of youth long before JK Rowling dreamed up the elixir of life — you were unfailingly gentle and patient and kind. But also persistent — you knew what you wanted.

You loved Church and our community, you had amazing grace and you gave grace to those around you, whether it was the struggling first graders in whom you instilled the confidence to take a chance and sound out a new word or the stray dog, Vince, you welcomed into our home.

You quietly marveled at and delighted in your grandchildren — Henry, who inherited your incredible singing voice and empathy, Derek who has that same steely determination and impossibly sweet heart, and darling Aban, who although only four already has that same unending fascination in animals and nature, and wow, does that kid love books.

And while cancer scarred your body and dementia robbed you of so much — your memory, your words — they could not take away that enduring sweetness.

And in little Liberty, two of the truly sweetest souls in the world found each other.

And last but certainly not least, that sweetness brought out the best in so many of us, including Dad. Dad — I honestly didn't know you had it in you — but watching you care for and love mom these past years was something truly extraordinary.

Mommy, I love you.

Kimberly

Family Reflections 

Thank you all for being here today. Seeing so many people who loved my mom means more than words can say.

In thinking about what I wanted to share about my mom, I realized it isn't about any one particular story — it's the thousands of small moments that made her who she was.

My mom believed every living thing deserved kindness. She noticed the things so many of us miss. She would rescue a bee that had fallen into the water, stop to admire a flower, or quietly devote herself to a young reader who was struggling, helping them find confidence and their way. Compassion wasn't something she chose when it was convenient — it was simply who she was.

Emily Dickinson, her favorite poet, wrote:

"If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain …

Or help one fainting Robin

Unto his Nest again …"

I don't think anyone ever embodied those words more than my mom. She spent much of her life quietly giving so much of herself to those she cared about. Looking back, I realize she was helping so many find their way.

Although dementia changed so much, it never changed the love she gave us. She would never say goodbye without a hug and the words, "I love you very much." And in her final days when the words eventually faded and she lost her ability to speak, the love never did. She found another way to tell us. She would hold our hands and gently stroke our arms, and in those quiet moments, we could still feel her saying, "I love you very much."

The greatest way we can remember my mom isn't just by thinking about her. It's by living a little more like she did — with more kindness, more compassion, and more love.

Henry and Derek, I want to say something to you. Someone once told me that after we lose someone we love, we have to learn to feel them in a different way. I've been thinking about that a lot these past few weeks.

I believe that every time you choose kindness, every time you show compassion, every time you lead with love, you'll feel a little bit of your grandmother with you. That's one of the ways her love lives on — not only in our memories, but in the way we choose to live our lives.

And for Aban, as he grows up hearing our stories and watching the way we treat one another, I hope he'll come to know his grandmother the very same way.

If we choose to live the way she did, I don't think we'll just remember her. I think we'll continue to feel her.

I love you very much, Mom.

“The Boxers” — A Tribute from Her Husband 

She is not unlike those haloed figures in medieval paintings. Her slight, sensuous form creates the illusion of floating just above the ground. She moves without ever making a sound. When you look up, she is simply there. She glides from where she is to wherever she wants to go.

By comparison, I am gruff, heavy-footed, and unkempt. Understandably, her delicate demeanor is occasionally a little too much for my crotchetiness.

She never truly pays attention. She briefly dozes off when I talk, then gently looks up the moment I stop. She is in a continual existential war with anything electronic: appliances, cell phones, computers, television remotes, coffee makers, and ATM machines. She is awkwardly hesitant when it comes to driving, directions, money, or almost anything domestic.

Once, when asked to dial a seven-digit phone number and then hit the pound key to leave an important message, she politely objected.

"The phone number is definitely wrong."

To demonstrate, she delicately touched each number on the keypad, made a fist, turned it sideways, and then thumped the pound key with it.

The shocked telephone recoiled.

She calmly placed the receiver to her ear and waited. After a thoughtful pause, she looked directly at me, handed me the phone, and quietly confirmed,

"You see...nothing."

There was no point in explaining.

At night she falls fast asleep with the television on. If I turn it off, she instantly springs awake and insists I turn it back on so she can get back to sleep.

She needs her glasses to find her glasses.

One morning, after a night of steady rain, she took Tarah, our pooch, for a walk wearing her new seven-hundred-dollar glasses. She returned with Tarah—but without the glasses.

Baffled, I asked,

"How is that possible?"

Completely unfazed, she replied,

"I guess they fell off while I was bending over to pick up the snails from the sidewalk. They were exposed. I had to return them to the slope where they'd be safe."

To every bee that wanders into our living room and clusters against the French doors, she extends an open hand. She carries each one outside to the nearest flowering rose.

"Hey, little one," she whispers. "How are you doing?"

Each bee is given all the time she needs to reorient herself. Each performs a tiny dance on Marilyn's palm before flying away.

She begins every day topsy-turvy, then becomes progressively more unsystematic.

She is stubbornly self-righteous.

She does not wear a watch; she tells time what to do.

She has an intimate relationship with denial—and denial often wins.

Occasionally, after driving into a parked car or a perfectly visible pole, she simply shrugs.

"It really shouldn't have been right there."

She is in touch with singularity.

Given her delicate neurological condition, specialists tell me there is no known way to accurately measure her cognitive acuity.

There is very little practical about Marilyn. Yet she is unreservedly loved by everyone who meets her—especially our two daughters and the hundreds of children she taught as a reading specialist for more than thirty years. Many, along with their parents, still stop to greet her warmly.

Not me.

I'm a potted plant.

All business. Practical. Solemn.

I often find it challenging to coexist inside her wonderfully illogical world.

Every so often I fantasize about a more Spartan existence.

"Perhaps," I tell myself, "I should try living on my own for a while. Just to see what it would be like."

It never gets very far.

Our youngest daughter, Kimberly—the lawyer—calls.

"Hi, Dad. I understand you and Mom may be living apart for a while."

"You know Shawna and I love you equally. We never take sides."

"So...if it comes to dividing the property, would you prefer the T-shirts or the boxer shorts? We're flexible."

If only Kimberly had an edgy sense of humor.

It would not take long before I found myself in a Kafkaesque county courtroom.

Marilyn sits to the left facing the bench.

Naturally, her side of the courtroom overflows with daughters, grandchildren, relatives, neighbors, former teachers, former students, grateful parents, assorted dogs, rescued bees, and probably a few appreciative snails.

My side of the courtroom is noticeably barren.

Perhaps a crumpled newspaper occupies one lonely bench.

My attorney has wisely failed to appear.

When the judge enters, she catches sight of Marilyn from the corner of her eye.

Committed to absolute judicial impartiality, she discreetly telegraphs Marilyn a reassuring smile.

An anticipatory rustle spreads through Marilyn's supporters.

The newspaper on my side remains motionless.

The judge sits.

Silence.

She slowly turns toward me.

A stern expression overtakes her face.

Without hearing testimony...

Without calling witnesses...

Without allowing opening arguments...

She raises her gavel.

BANG!

"Guilty on all charges!"

I ask,

"What does that mean?"

Apparently everyone else already knows.

Before I quite understand what has happened, I find myself standing in nothing but my boxer shorts.

Moments later my phone vibrates.

A text from Kimberly.

Then another from Shawna.

"Hey, Dad..."

"Don't be a stranger."

"Oh...and by the way..."

"You look great in those boxers."

May her memory be a blessing.