Today would be my mother's birthday. She's been dead for 25 years. She died younger than I am now, at 61. She's missed so much that I had hoped she'd see: weddings, graduations, her grown up grandchildren. I feel there are many conversations I did not have with her, because I wasn't mature enough. And I wish I had more history of her. Yes, she lives on in my heart, but it's not the same. I have an irrational envy of friends whose mothers are still alive, even though they are dealing with debility and illness and seeing their parents grow old and dependent. My two older kids' stepmother has two healthy, sharp and delightful parents. Maybe it only looks good from the outside, but being an orphan, even at my advanced age, is difficult at times.
I appreciate every day I have now, and am grateful to have survived to the blessed state of grandparenthood. I probably won't live to see all my grandchildren, but I've written a grandparents' book, and intend to leave letters to them. At least my parents lived to see all four of their grandchildren, and delight in them. The youngest doesn't remember them at all, but I see facets of them in her, and she has my mother's legs, which is a great gift, let me tell you. So I take this moment to remember and wish I'd had reason to buy a card and gift, and surprise her with a cake. Happy birthday, Mom.
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