Happy 70th Birthday

Dear Mom,

Seventy. What a number. You would’ve either loved this birthday or absolutely hated it. I wonder what insane thing you’d do to, “prove to everyone you weren’t old.” Not sure how you’d beat running a half marathon at 55 when you had never run a day in your life. Maybe you would’ve gotten that tattoo you always wanted. Or dyed your hair a crazy color. Skydiving? You’d scream the entire time. 

I keep thinking about the word, “old.” It’s often used as a derogative. People, especially women, bristle at being called that word. It implies being past your prime or defining aging as a bad thing. We as a society spend so much time trying to look and feel “young.” To prolong the inevitable. But what happens when the inevitable isn’t even a possibility anymore? 

When you died, my youth was taken from me and your aging was taken from you. I was a 17 year old forced to grow up and reckon with a grief that most people experience far into their adulthood. I not only grieved my mother, but the loss of a naivety we protect in children to keep their world whole. Even 13 years later I mourn the youthful innocence that died alongside you.

You will never get to age. Pass into the chapters of life where “old” becomes a reality versus an inevitability. I see you in the faces of my friend’s parents and my mom’s siblings as their bodies and minds experience the passage of time that only comes with living. They make my heart warm and weep at the same time. I picture the wrinkles forming in your face from years of smiling and laughing. The salt and pepper of your post chemo hair fading to white. I try to listen for what your voice would’ve sounded like. Would it have softened and quieted? Or would you have been as loud as I remember until the very end.

I would’ve liked to watch the world slow down for you. To need to walk up steps slower because you had already walked thousands of miles over the years. Your body needing more rest from all the experiences and memories it collected. I wish I could’ve seen you and dad grow old together after raising two kids and a generation after. Seeing you both evolve. You used to joke, “he’s stuck with me for forever.” I’m sorry you didn’t get to have forever.

I live knowing you watched me grow up but you’ll never see me age. If we passed each other on the street today, would you know it was me? Would you recognize this woman who has lived a thousand lifetimes since losing you? The daughter who sat by your side as a little girl wishing she could be an adult like you someday.

Today I close my eyes and picture who you could’ve been on your 70th birthday. I let my heart and mind fill in for reality. You are wearing one of your favorite cashmere sweaters and drinking a glass of red wine. I come and sit at your feet. I imagine the lines traced into your face and skin like the words of stories your body got to live. I see you aged in glory and gratitude ready to take on the next decade. You take my face in your hands and wipe away the tears. The sobs in my chest quiet as I hear your soothing whispers. Your forehead pressed against mine. I sit in this imagining, willing it to become an actual memory. 

Happy 70th birthday mom. I will love you for all the ages to come.