Memories of Prejetta Gaye Deniston

In memory of

Prejetta Gaye Deniston

Long Beach, CA, USA

January 15, 1930 - April 9, 2018

Jan 15, 1930 - Apr 9, 2018

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Donna Deniston

Bruce Deniston

Donna Deniston

Wanting to tell my mother so many things today! Most of all that I loved her and am so very grateful she was my mother. It isn't until you grow older and experience a lot of life that you truly understand how fortunate you were to have had the things you did. My parents never did anything that wasn't for their children's betterment in some way or another. There was never any question of how much they loved us and for that I am very, very thankful. Thinking of you today, my sweet mother.

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Bruce Deniston

Donna Deniston

Bruce Deniston

In lieu of flowers, consider a gift to American Cancer Society.

Learn more & give

Donna Deniston

Bruce Deniston

Donna Deniston

Bruce Deniston

Donna Deniston

Bruce Deniston

Donna Deniston

Bruce Deniston

Donna Deniston

Bruce Deniston

Donna Deniston

Bruce Deniston

Donna Deniston

Bruce Deniston

Donna Deniston

Bruce Deniston

Donna Deniston

Bruce Deniston

Donna Deniston

I'm so happy to see the picture of my mother reading to her grandchildren! She was a great story reader. I have so many fond memories of sitting close to her, feeling safe and warm, while she read to us kids. At Christmas time she would gather us around on the couch in our pajamas and open the first pages of The Happy Prince, by Oscar Wilde. I can still hear her voice softly repeating, "Swallow, swallow, little swallow...", a recurring and vital phrase by the main character throughout the story. As she read the last paragraph or two, her voice would crack with emotion, and I would try very hard not to cry, too. When I grew up and had my own family, I kept the tradition going with my children. To this day, whenever I read The Happy Prince, I still hear my mother's voice reading along with me. Such a comforting and wonderful memory!
Being the only girl in the family, I always felt a special bond with my mother. From the time I was a toddler, we would go out to lunch together. We'd both wear our white gloves and dresses. Once we were seated at our table, she'd show me how to remove my gloves properly -- gently pulling from each finger tip, then setting the pair of them one on top of the other next to my plate. Even though we were both dressed up, sitting in a fancy restaurant, we'd still have such a fun time! There were many other times she made me feel so special to her, like I was the only little girl in the world. It was no secret to anyone in our family that I wanted a sister. I never did get that wish, but my relationship with my mother more than made up for any disappointment I may have had over being the only girl with 3 brothers!

Whenever my parents went out to dinner or to a party, I would sit on their bed and watch my mother get ready. I was in awe as she put on her makeup at her dressing table with the big round mirror. She'd take out her rollers and brush out her blonde hair, carefully styling it into a shoulder length wavy "do". Then she'd put on a pretty dress, clip-on earrings and a bracelet from her jewelry box, then slip into a pair of heels from her neatly organized closet (One of my favorite places in the world -- and my usual hiding place when I was pouting about a self-perceived injustice.) With a final dab of perfume behind each ear and to her wrists she was ready to go. At that moment, my mother became so beautiful to me that I would actually get tears in my eyes just looking at her! For quite some time, I actually believed she was a movie star -- she looked like one to me, so in my mind she was!
When I learned last April that my mother was getting ready to leave her mortal body, one of my brothers sent a picture of her lying in bed in her room. When I saw it, I said aloud with tears in my eyes, "Mama, you're still so beautiful." I couldn't be there with her for health reasons, but I am certain she and I shared our thoughts across the miles during those few days as she struggled with her transition. Over the years, she and I shared some healing talks about our shortcomings and regrets. My mother and I were very much alike in many ways. We fought the same personal demons and shared a private understanding of them. I will be forever grateful for those talks. The last words I ever spoke to her, aside from expressing my love, came from a poem she used to read to me from a favorite book, "A Child's Garden of Verses". It was my wish to comfort her (and myself), to lovingly encourage her to let go and to remind her of the love that awaited her arrival. While my youngest brother held the phone to her ear, I began to read. At the end of each stanza, I stopped and said how this related to her, just like she used to do with me as a child. For a few moments it was as if the telephone disappeared and there was only me and my mother. Even though she was unresponsive at this time, I know she heard me and hopefully felt the same warmth and comfort that I did.

Day and Night,
by Robert Louis Stevenson,
A Child's Garden of Verses ( a very small portion of what I read)

"In the darkness shapes of things, houses, trees, and hedges, Clearer grow; and sparrow's wings, beat on window ledges. These shall wake the yawning maid; She the door shall open -- Finding dew on garden glade and the morning broken."

Go to sleep, dear mama, and wake to a new morning.

Love forever,
Donna

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Prejetta Gaye Deniston

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