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Happy birthday to my best friend

My mom would have turned 60 today. She is in my head every day, but a much younger version. So I can only imagine what she would look like at this point: I imagine her sparkling green eyes have a few more wrinkles around them -- laugh lines, of course, similar to the lines that accentuate her smile. She's still trying to find the perfect shade of strawberry blond to cover those stubborn streaks of white above her ears; sometimes her hair is a little too blond, sometimes a little too red. She still obsesses about her chin and her pot belly. Her long, thin arms and legs are a touch more suntanned than ever before from all the time spent gardening and playing on the beach with her grandson. She'd be retired now, after all, with more time to spend in her beloved outdoors -- but I'm sure she'd still be teaching here and there, maybe volunteering in an after-school program for gifted kids or tutoring adults who need reading help. She'd stay busy. Could never sitting still, my mom.

Even though I've been out of the house for over 10 years now, I'd still call her every few nights, just to tell her about my day or to laugh about something silly Sweet Boy said. Sometimes I'd call to bitch about work or to gripe about something dumb my husband said or to whine about the latest frustrating kid behavior. She'd tell me to suck it up, to stop complaining, to look around at the beauty and wonder that is my life. And she'd be right, and I'd feel better just having gotten it off my mind.

We'd get together for girl time every now and then, go out for drinks and live music, like we did that summer I got my fake ID. She loved my fake ID. And in hindsight, it's good I had it, because she died right around the time I was breaking in the real one. In summer we'd drink white wine together on my deck, like girlfriends, and we'd watch our men chase fireflies with Sweet Boy. She'd be teasing my dad in her odd, biting way; humor was not really her strong point, but after 35 years with Dad, her sense for sarcasm has finally tuned up a touch.

Sixty looks good on Mom in my mind. She's happy, relaxed, peaceful. She's finally able to enjoy some of her hard-earned money, instead of constantly scraping and sacrificing for new shoes for her kids or summer camps or college bills. Mom and Dad have been to Europe more than once since retiring, and they're planning that Alaska trip. It's so nice to see them with time to spend together. So much time.

I won't dwell today on how much I miss her. Sometimes I feel as if the hole in my middle is visible to the entire world. I've waited 12 years for that hole to heal, to close up even just a tiny bit, but I realize now it never will; it's part of who I am. But the bigger part of me is full from the 21 years I got to spend with my mom. I do think about her every day, sometimes with sadness, sometimes with anger, sometimes with curiosity. But today I'll think of her with happiness and gratitude. Today I'll sing happy birthday to my mom. I'll eat a cupcake in her honor, I'll drink that glass of white wine on my deck. I will celebrate her memory.


  1. You made me tear up, and I never had the pleasure of meeting your mom. I like what you've imagined your parents doing together had they been given the time to do what they wanted. There's no doubt she'd have been all over her grandson, too, soaking up time with him like a sponge.

    You'll see her again some day, and in the meantime, she's all around you.

  2. Sweetie, some holes just aren't meant to heal. But I'm so glad that you're able to toast your mom. And what a beautiful tribute to her, that you can imagine so clearly how she would have lived her life. I'm sure that she would be so proud of you. A very happy birthday to her indeed.

  3. Some holes never heal. Your mother sounds like she was a true blessing. Reading how you described her, it's obvious that you inherited the best parts of herself that she had to pass along. Cheers to your mother and to you for following in her footsteps as a wonderful woman.


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