My mother would have turned 55 today. Even though the anniversary of her death is a sad time, I’ve always struggled more with her birthday.
My mother died on September 10, 2001 after a year-long battle with cancer. The US was in turmoil 12 hours after she passed. Each year as the anniversary of 9/11 approaches, I don’t allow myself to wallow in self-pity that my mother is gone. So many people lost loved ones–suddenly, tragically, without warning. I was at least fortunate to have the time to say goodbye to my mother. I realize that that was a luxury that those who lost their loved ones because of 9/11 didn’t have.
But her birthday hasn’t failed to jolt me each of the past 7 years. It’s almost spring. The days are a little longer, the weather’s a little nicer. Some years it’s almost Easter. It’s a time of birth and re-birth. And the woman that gave birth to me is not here.
When she was the age that I am now, she had a bratty 13 year-old and a troubled 7 year-old. When she was the age that I am now, her life was almost three-quarters of the way complete.
It’s thoughts like that that give me perspective.