Janis-Rozena Peri

Saying Goodbye to Zenobia

by Janis-Rozena Peri

Zenobia

In an interview once, Mother was asked about her philosophy of parenting. Her response? “Being a parent is a privilege, an honor, and a responsibility. All children belong to God. As parents, we are God’s appointees: we are the guardians of His children.”

World War II did lots of damage. Lives, buildings, trust, health, sanity - all were lost or damaged. Among the ruins: my parents’ marriage. As I grew up, contact with my father was minimal: I saw him on exactly seven occasions. The glorious constant in my life was Mother, Zenobia Powell Perry. A composer and university professor, she was also a peaceful and courageous warrior; a loyal and loving daughter; an influential and caring teacher; and a wonderful and wondrous mother.

No one can figure out how, in a family of people who are so, to put in kindly, substantial, she managed to be so tiny. On a good day, wearing a suit, a heavy woolen coat, and pair of snow boots, Zenobia might weigh one hundred pounds. She had to be reminded to eat: food was way down on her list of priorities. As she got older, it got harder to get her attention away from composing and hundreds of other activities to get her to the table. The Wilberforce-Xenia community seemed to make it their business to see that Zenobia was eating regularly. There was always a steady stream of neighbors showing up at her door with some dish that she just had to try.

Zenobia died at the age of ninety-five. My last days with her were agonizing and painful. She was diagnosed on January 7, 2004 with a lethal cancer and died ten days later. But her sense of humor held up until the end. Shortly before she went into a final coma, she assured me: “The first eighty years are the hardest.” The hospice nurse, in her compassion, understood. “Your mother needs her peace,” she said, “but she can’t die until you leave the room. She doesn’t want to die in front of you.” So, I left the room. She died ten minutes later.

“Not marble, nor the gilded monuments of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; But you shall shine more bright in these contents than unswept stone, besmear’d with sluttish time.”