Goodbye, Mom. And thank you.

She was of the top of that generation upon whose shoulders today's women leaders - all leaders - stand.

I’ve not written for a few months. In part this is because in a time of War and economic upheaval it seemed a bit unseemly to write about the vicissitudes of global technology - as exciting and hopeful as that all remains. But the larger reason is I joined my sister and father in helping our remarkable woman in her journey to the other side.

If you were fortunate enough to know her, I’d deeply appreciate you DM’ing me some memories on how she touched you.

Here are mine:

Mom went to college at fourteen and law school at eighteen, where she was one of two women at Fordham. She rarely made mention of this but to say nonchalantly that her Italian immigrant parents simply supported her moving through school without any limitations other than what her skills could achieve.

I did ask her once what her parents made of her as a woman attorney in those days, and she looked over my shoulder with curiosity and a smile on her face and said: “I don’t remember their ever saying anything about me being a woman. I do remember that Dad couldn’t get over a kid with a vowel at the end of her name (meaning an Italian) landing a job at a white shoe, largely WASP Wall Street law firm.”

I remember only one other moment like this one morning when she was reading the New York Times coverage of the selection of Ruth Bader Ginsburg to the Supreme Court. She said, as if to no one, “Why are they making such a big deal of her being a woman lawyer in the ‘50s and ‘60s? It wasn’t that bad if you just delivered the goods and worked hard.” This was vintage Mom because explicitly she articulated among the greatest unspoken lessons she shared with my sister and me: work hard, speak with your bat and keep moving. Implicitly, however, what she was also saying, “I would have been a better choice for the Court…”

Mom was an example of the best product of her times. From a generation whose earliest memories were the Depression and War, she never ever considered living beyond her means. She came of age at a time in America where opportunity seemed limitless but obligation to give back essential. The daughter and granddaughter of Italian immigrants, she had the most uncompromising commitment to family and unrelenting belief in hard work.

Her father was a loving, demanding, energetic self-made man. He debated politics and current events with her incessantly. And as he had been a friend of and held several senior appointments under Mayor LaGuardia, he instilled in her a commitment to give back. Her mother, who came from Italy to New York speaking no English, was likely her greatest force. Self-taught, she was the smartest of the bunch and gave Mom the conviction that she could do anything and that any challenge can be stoically addressed.

Mom, in fact, was tempered by some of the hardest personal experiences one can face - her brother died of cancer when she was seven, and she learned in her early thirties, as her career seemed on a limitless trajectory, that our brother had severe learning disabilities. She decided to stay at home and make us her priority - always maintaining a successful independent practice.

Typical of Mom, my sister and I never knew we had anything unusual or exceptional in our brother. Both Mom and Dad simply ensured that life did not skip a beat, without ever talking about it all.

It was not until I had children that the magnitude of her strength here hit me. I never saw her blink, never complain. I rarely could get her to engage on what it was like to raise what was then called a “retarded” child at home at a time where conventional wisdom suggested - and acquaintances often did so explicitly - he could be “sent somewhere.” She would have none of it.

Two memories stick out where I did see her show emotion around him. One summer they found a wonderful camp for special needs kids in Pennsylvania and thought it would be good for him to try it. We were to drop him off at a hotel ballroom in New York City, and busses would take them for their adventure. As we left, I looked back and saw my brother, maybe 14, sitting all alone quietly but no doubt confused. I turned and looked at my mother, who was rushing to put sunglasses on as she walked out. She didn’t want my sister and me to see her crying – one of the only times I did.

The second memory is when a good friend co-authored an astounding history of autism. When I read an early draft I came across the name of Bruno Bettelheim. He had attained great popularity in various fields of Freudian psychology - later well beyond any experience or skill he had - yet landed positions at the leading universities in America. He actively promoted a theory of the “refrigerator mom,” blaming the lack of warmth from parents - especially mothers - as the cause of autism. I sent Mom an email asking if she had heard of him at the time. Her response was merely: “That fucker.”

Mom went on to be a leader in Westchester County for kids like my brother, sitting on boards of some leading, saintly groups like the Westchester ARC (then known as the Association for Retarded Citizens) needing her steady hand, legal skills, and wisdom. She was a member of the Scarsdale Board of Trustees, obsessed with ensuring the highest educational opportunities for any kid.

One of her deepest loves was Caramoor, a stunningly beautiful estate in Katonah, New York, which eventually became one of the nations’ greatest summer music and arts festivals. As a young lawyer in her twenties, a great music philanthropist hired Mom as her estates attorney and asked her to help turn her expansive home into the vision of what it became. Mom always had on her wall a beautiful black and white photo of the loveliest gardens there with handwritten note from Mrs. Rosen reading: “This is a picture of Caramoor. I so looking forward to your helping me take care of it,” and that she did. She served on the board for decades, including as Chairwoman.

She and Dad introduced our children to the love of classical music and had them meet great artists like Yo Yo Ma. Growing up, my house had a sound track - Mom and Dad shared a love of classical music, and it was always playing in some room in the house. I loved nothing more than attending a performance at Carnegie Hall or the Metropolitan Opera with them, where each intermission was like a master class, learning from their wisdom. One of my favorite memories was of my parents - at one of theit many raucous dinner parties - playing four hands piano versions of Mozart. Another friend would take over, and they would sing show tunes into the evening something less than sober.

“The truth is over-rated,” my mother said to me on more than one occasion. She wasn’t advocating for lying at all - in fact, she was as straight shooting and direct as one could be. But she chose her battles, and this was her point. “People don’t want to hear your opinions all the time. Shut up once in a while and take care of your own issues.”

Once, in third grade, when Mom dropped me off at school after a lunch break, she watched me organize the kids for some activity or another, barking orders and lining people up. “Get over here,” she called to me. Crouching down at eye level she said, “Who wants to be told what to do? Do you? Find out what the other kids would like, listen don’t talk. Then they will really follow.”

Mom asked me to give a eulogy for her mother some years ago, and, literally, as I stood to give it, she pulled me toward her by my jacket and said, “Keep it short and don’t be maudlin.” As I returned to my seat afterward, she said, “Good” as she looked off in the distance.

Mom wrote me often as a kid when I was away in the summer or at college, and I fear I have lost many of these letters. They were mostly factual and supportive, but one day, in a particularly hard period of junior year in college, she had written out, in her elegant hand, Rudyard Kipling’s “If.” Whenever I got above myself or talked about myself, she was ready to take me down a peg, but if I was ever down, she would then overblow my capabilities beyond reality. After one particularly galling loss in a soccer game, where we all played like hell and my father made some wise crack, she turned on him with ferocity: “Everyone loses. But Christopher was the best and tried his best.” It wasn’t true, but it felt good.

It is hard to imagine a better grandmother. In good or hard times, Mom was right there with us to navigate any shoal. She held “Camp Grandma” every summer, and each kid would come individually to relax, go to concerts, visit museums, learn how to play poker, and learn to cook. And she had long relationships on text with each of them, sharing laughs, links, and wisdom in the uncertainties of adolescence. Julia said to me last night, “I know to you she was a complicated woman. But to me she was perfect.” She was a go-to font of wisdom for them and a deeply loving and thoughtful mother-in-law to Sandy.

Mom was an exceptional cook, having watched her mother’s gifts for decades. She taught me and all of us a great deal but always kept tricks hidden. Up until a few months ago I would eat something she made - often quite simple - and think, “Goddammit, I will never be able to do this.”

I think the happiest and most serene I have seen her is when she and Dad travelled, especially to Italy. They had taken us a handful of times as kids, and they were incredible tutors on history, culture, and learning. But when the two of them went, it was just different. They would explore every nook and cranny, and people treated them with incredible warmth because they were so warm. Neither I nor any friend I have had planning a trip to Italy considered doing so without seeking her advice first.

She was an incredible friend. My parents had a set of friends consistent for nearly half a century, and they formed and supported each other as the family they too became.

She treated everyone she met, regardless of who or what they were in title, exactly the same. The outpouring of stories this week of ways she touched people - in things large and small - have been astounding but not surprising to me.

The last months, as we all will face or have faced, were very hard. But they were beautiful also, marked by a lot of affection and laughs. She brought my sister and me together in a profound way. I’ve always been impressed by my sister but saw a gift of love and caregiving and touch I did not think humanly possible. Dad was the team captain for team Mom.

Her last lesson and gift to me was presence. So much of our lives - often to a fault - is thinking about what comes next. In this experience there was no “next.” So, instead, we just were.

And it was magnificent.