The beautiful young woman in this picture wouldn’t want me to do this, but since she’s not around to object, I am free to do what I wish.

Her name was Mnostoula. The fellow next to her was Pete. They were my parents.

Today would be Mom’s 92nd birthday.

She’s been gone for a very long time now. Not quite 31 years to be exact.

Mom’s name was an old-country Greek name given to her by her mother, our Yiayia. She felt it was too hard to pronounce, so when she went out into the working world at a young age, she adopted the name “Mitzi.” My sisters and I never liked the nickname, but that’s how she was known.

Truth be told, her name wasn’t all that difficult to pronounce. Just understand that the “n” was silent, and you could say it just as it appeared. Our late uncle Tom — one of Dad’s brothers — called her “Mno,” but Tom would stick the “n” into the shortened version of the name and it would come out “M-no.” Mom loved hearing that.

Mom didn’t laugh out loud, as in guffaw, the way, say, Dad did. She would giggle, often at her own quips, which were quick, unexpected and always funny.

She and Dad were married for 34 years. Then tragedy struck in September 1980, when Dad died in a boating accident. He was just 59. But tragedy already had taken hold of Mom by that point. She had been diagnosed earlier that year with Alzheimer’s disease. She was just 57 at the time. But the sad fact is that she likely was exhibiting symptoms for years prior to that; we just weren’t alert enough in the late 1970s to figure it out.

Yes, she was dealt a terrible hand when that dreaded disease stole her humor, her liveliness. She would live only for another four years before passing away from Alzheimer’s-related complications.

We can’t change the past. We can think, perhaps, of how matters might have changed if fate hadn’t intervened. Mom always talked of her younger years — such as when this engagement picture was taken with Dad. She remembered how full of vim and vigor she was. Her future was bright, she would tell me. She would recall how she was a pistol.

She left us far too soon.

Wherever she is, I know she hears me.

Happy birthday, Mom. I love you.