“One day I will tell you how much it means to me, but not today. Not today.”

I called my mom on Sunday to make sure the flowers I sent for her 51st wedding anniversary had arrived. Not today. It had been thirty-odd years since she and my dad celebrated the day together, and it was not much of a celebration as his health was in decline. Cancer was winning and she was losing the man with whom she fell in love years ago at a bar in New York City.

Anniversaries always seem different from any other day after the death of someone close. Holidays too. These are time when you come together with the whole family to celebrate, to laugh, and in our family to eat and drink.

Death is a disassembling beast which arrives one day to steal the precious sense of normalcy. However, death does not always destroy. In fact, out of its destructiveness comes life. At least a new life. This reality was something about which I thought when I learned of the death of Joan Rivers. More particularly, the relationship she had with her daughter, which was reborn after her husband committed suicide. In them, I saw myself and my mother.

No, neither my mom, nor I are as wealthy as they are. And I am pretty sure that no one, including our own family, would spent 10 seconds watching a reality show about our lives. And I can assure you we have not discussed with each other any details of our love/sex lives.

We do talk almost every day. Where Joan and Melissa Rivers talked fashion and paramours, mom and I talk politics and current events.

As distinctly different our personalities are, humor has created a deep bond. I doubt whether our relationship would be what it is today if it were not for dad’s death. That might be true for every relationship because death changes life. It alters plans.

Despite knowing that his days were not many, when my dad finally died, Mom did not have time to think about how she would tell me or Tom. She sent us off to school and then had to deal with reality. She had a funeral to plan. She had to call the hospice to have the hospital bed removed because “it was too painful a reminder.” She had to call our school, to make Mass arrangements.

“I think I just sat you down and said he was dead,” my mom tells me. Tom reacted with anger, slamming doors and seeking refuge in his room. I followed my big brother upstairs and sat on my bed. At seven, I had not grasp of the gravity of events.

I know I think of my dad almost every day, not just on anniversaries. I have for years and will for years to come. I think of how his death broke our family. And I think of the stronger family to which his death gave life.