I'm not even the most reliable narrator of my own mother's life, because children never are. We see our mothers through our lens, not theirs. We don't see them as their friends do, or their spouses. We see them weighted with our own myopic view. We see them as part of our story, not the center of theirs.
So I will never know the true story of my mother's life. I will only know how it affected me.
Today would have been her 68th birthday. I remember when 2013 dawned, I was a little sad because I had to say goodbye to the last year my mom was alive. 2012 is the last year that held her in this world. 65 was the last age she turned.
In some ways, her passing defines my life in the same way that the birth of my daughter does. Bookmarks of significance that shaped me as a woman, a human being. I find myself telling the story of her death and my starting grad school as inextricably linked. If you haven't seen me for years, you need to know this about me. These things happened. They matter.
My mother liked to say that the last birthday she celebrated, the last one she wanted to celebrate, was her 29th. It started on a Thursday. She went out with her work girlfriends that night. On Friday she celebrated with my dad and their friends. Saturday night was for her and my dad. Sunday her mom made dinner and they had a family celebration.
I loved this story. I loved the idea that my mom had this weekend in which she got to see all the people in her life, all those little groups that made up her world. It seemed wonderfully right to me, just the sort of way you should celebrate your birthday. I can't remember where I was in that story - I was 16 months old at the time - but for once, it didn't matter to me. I didn't take center stage in this story. This was purely about my mom. That's what I cared about. What did she wear, who was there, what did they eat? Did she have four birthday cakes? What went into this perfect celebration of life? I wanted all the details.
For years, she wore an apron that said "29 Forever". She might have been two decades past that, but the apron lived on. I know my mother got older, but she never seemed to age. I don't mean that she aged well, because she did, despite the ravages of near-constant chemo. I mean that she never seemed old. Some people are old at 30, and some never truly seem to age.
I asked her once how old she was in her head. At the time I was probably 37 and felt 25. She said her internal age did get older but it was never past her late 40s. She just felt young, and fun. We would both point out signs of her aging with shock. How could she ever look old? Impossible.
She did get older, but not old enough. Not for me. I would take many more years with her. But if given my choice, one of those magic wishes that don't exist, one of those that move time or mess with order, I would travel to February 1976. To the weekend when my mom was the star of the story, alive and beautiful and young. I would just take it in, see a tiny part of the story she lived. See her last official birthday.
I don't think it would make me miss her any less, or stop me from wishing for more birthdays with her. But it sounds like fun. Today, though I will not have that option. Instead, I will try to carry her with me. Her sense of humor, her love for our family, her ability to recognize strong smart women and make them her best friends. Those qualities and so many more.
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) i am never without it
-ee cummings
My mom and I not-celebrating her last birthday. She would kill me for posting this photo.
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