Three years ago today, I lost my mother. This anniversary prompts me to ponder the nature of time itself. While many may remain oblivious to the passage of time in their daily lives, mothers have a unique sensitivity to it.
As mothers, we are acutely aware of time’s effects. We notice it when we look at our eighth graders and see the unmistakable signs of adolescence—hairy legs that momentarily steal our breath away. It’s surprising how quickly those changes appear, even if they’ve been there all along.
We recognize time’s passage when our tenth graders begin to sport sideburns and facial hair, often catching us off guard. One moment they’re children, and the next, they’re emerging adults. The realization can be startling, especially when we’ve been focused on other milestones, like their deepening voices.
As summer wanes and our college students begin to gather their belongings, we find ourselves questioning, “Is it that time already?” We’ve watched them enjoy their brief respite, only to realize they will soon be off again, living their own lives.
Mothers also experience a deep connection to time as our oldest children—who are still figuring out their paths—begin to navigate life on their own. Witnessing their mistakes and triumphs can make time feel as though it’s both racing and standing still (cue the nervous laughter from parents of young adults).
It’s no wonder that mothers become hyper-aware of the passing years. Recently, a group of friends and I took a ferry to a beautiful destination for a summer outing. It was a lovely day, but I couldn’t shake a feeling of melancholy, realizing that this gathering mirrored a similar one from three years ago, my last carefree day before my mother’s battle with cancer began.
In those days, I would call her each weekend to share stories about my children’s activities, sales I found, or fun adventures with friends. She would always pause her favorite shows, like the classic Law and Order, to listen to my updates, her voice a comforting presence in my life.
That last ferry ride stands out in my memory. When I called her that evening, her frailty was evident; she could no longer engage in our usual banter. I hung up, tears streaming down my face, realizing that our shared moments were slipping away. Just days later, I was back with her in New York, where I stayed until her ordeal ended just weeks later.
Now, 156 weeks later, I still feel her absence acutely, especially as my family dynamic has shifted dramatically. Our home, now filled with teenagers and young adults, often feels quieter and lonelier, despite being busier than ever. As Dorothy Gale once said, “People come and go so quickly around here.” In a household of increasingly independent individuals, family dinners are rare, and it’s common for several family members to be absent at once.
The busyness can lead to feelings of solitude, especially as I navigate the fleeting nature of time. This realization makes me cherish the small moments—car rides, conversations, and even the simple pleasure of frying bacon to rouse my teenage sons from their weekend slumber. It serves as a reminder that these little experiences are precious.
Above all, I vow that whenever I receive a call from a loved one who is far away, I will turn down the noise of the world and listen intently, just as my mother did for me. It’s a promise to honor her memory and the love she showed.
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In summary, time is both a gentle companion and a relentless force that shapes our lives. As we navigate its passage, it’s essential to appreciate the moments we have and the connections we build along the way.
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