I Bore Witness to An Intimate Thing: What Would You Have Done?

It’s two Wednesdays ago. I drive a half hour south to a big county building to obtain my Mother’s death certificate. I’ve been warned that I need to purchase ten copies because of the sheer number of places that will need to see some proof that she’s gone. The more meaningful evidence – her ashes – were brought to our front door just today by an appropriately respectful member of the U.S. Postal Service.

I pull my Jeep up to a spot in the lot in front of the hulking government office building and walk into the lobby. A large sign indicates that both death and wedding certificates are to the right. I look over and see clerks standing behind a glass partition beneath the numbers one through twenty which hang above a counter easily thirty yards long. A helper tells me to pull a ticket and wait for my number to be called, like I’m buying pastrami instead of proof that my Mother is gone.

I grab my ticket and walk to the small waiting area at the far end of the long room, across from clerk windows 1 through 4. A dozen other people are seated there, on couches and chairs, some in groups, some couples, and a few individuals. I sit down facing the clerk’s counter. This is the last place I want to be and it’s the last thing I want to be doing, so even after minutes it feels like it’s already taking forever. I scroll my phone.

After about a half hour, I hear multiple voices speaking Spanish and English and look up to see an entourage of people entering from the left. Stout middle-aged men and women in fancy clothes hold their phones up as they turn around and walk gently backwards, clearly filming something. Two adorable boys in tiny suits scamper about. Then comes a man in a military dress uniform and a woman in a thin white gown. Elders in sensible shoes and lace bring up the rear, also capturing it all on their phones. An older dude with a video camera and a tripod angles for a better spot between the couches and chairs amid the family members with raised phones.

The military man and lady in white walk to window 3. The clerk asks whether they have a marriage license. One of them does and hands it over.

I hear the clerk say, “In the spot for your mother’s name you’ve put ‘Unknown.’ Do you know it?” She’s looking at the man.

“No.”

I’m sad for him. Sad that he has to be reminded of the fact of not even knowing his mother’s name on this day which is clearly a day meant for happiness. But the clerk is all business about this form. Clearly, if a person’s marriage license says their mother is “unknown” more forms and processes will be needed before there can be a wedding and maybe even delays will ensue. The man says they need to be married by next Thursday. In the story I’m inventing about this couple, the military man is about to be deployed.

The clerk gets creative. She asks, “Were you born in this county? We can look it up.”

Wait what? This whole scene now has my complete attention. A man is offered the chance to learn the name of his biological mother all as a part of getting married, as a requirement even for doing so. But I’m wondering Why doesn’t he know her name? Was it kept from him? Did he never want to know? Will the stories he may have heard about her turn out to be true? Is anyone here the woman who raised him? Is one of these women perhaps his mother and he doesn’t know it? Does he need this kind of drama today?

I’m fifteen feet away from the couple, and I’ve heard this exchange between the clerk and the man, and if it was audible to me I have to assume the folks in the entourage have heard this momentous question as well. But none of them seems phased. No one goes to him to ask if he’s okay, or to ask the clerk if there’s another way around this, or to put a hand on his shoulder. Or maybe they haven’t realized it’s happening. I haven’t been paying attention to who is speaking English and who is speaking Spanish so I suppose maybe the ones who would care the most are not even aware that this line of inquiry is taking place at window 3.

The clerk’s tone hasn’t changed, even slightly. I’m kind of annoyed. I kind of feel she should be a little less perfunctory and a little more humane about what is unfolding. But maybe this kind of thing happens at the county building all the time, and the less emotional anyone gets the better.

As for me though, I’m about to lose my mind. I’m an empath. All the feels come my way. I have no idea who this man is but he has never known his mother and I just lost mine and both of their names need to be listed on a form in order for each of us to get out of here with what we need today.

The clerk prods, “Do you want me to look it up?”

“Yes,” the man replies.

My mind races. I have to look away. Does she leave the window and go over to some old filing cabinet of abandoned children or just type his name into her desktop computer and let the database do its work?

I hear the clerk’s voice again, but she’s quieter now, behaving with more discretion than before, which feels right to me even though it means I can’t hear what’s happening in this action-packed drama. The man’s back is to me, so I can’t see his reaction when he receives the name, and I’m left to invent what might be going on inside his heart and what his bride thinks of all of this.

And like that, the wedding is back on. The couple slide down to window 1, the family members hold up their phones, the boys amble about, and the clerk reads the wedding vows in call-and-response fashion. The clerk finishes with, “By the power vested in me by the County of Santa Clara, I now declare you Husband and Wife.” The family bursts into applause, and I burst into applause too, as do the other bystanders. I’m clapping not just for the wedding, but for the raw humanity of it all, and that it’s playing out in PUBLIC here at the county building.

_____

It’s not long after that my number is called. I go to window 12 for my death certificates. I’m aware from the wedding license incident that the rubber meets the road here at the county. That the county knows ALL. And I can’t help but wonder what could come apart for me here. Did Mom die appropriately, in their view? Is the information all correct and certifiable? I hold my breath and prepare for a potential interrogation. Even though her ashes are in a box on my dining table, she’s not really dead until the county says so, right?

But it’s all good. I gather up my ten embossed blue documents, thank the clerk, exit the building, and walk over to my car.

As I’m starting to climb up into the Jeep, I see the bride walking to a car and the groom walking over to another car and opening the trunk, and then another man, older than the groom, perhaps his dad, comes over to him, and I’m making up all sorts of stories in my head about what is being said or going unsaid between them. Then the groom starts to walk toward me.

I can’t help myself. I just have to. I lean out my car door and yell “Congratulations” and the groom shouts, “Thank you.” And I close my door and stare through my windshield knowing that what I wanted to tell the Groom is I so feel for you today. I just lost my mom and you just found yours and I don’t know whose pain is greater.

_____

1. Please click the comment button below and share how this account makes you feel. Can you relate to any of it? Which character in the story do you most identify with, and what would you have done if you were them?

2. Julie’s Pod grows when you help others discover it. Can you think of someone who would enjoy this story? If so please share this piece with them:

xo

© 2025 Love Over Time LLC All Rights Reserved