Nineteen years ago today, my mother died.
That is, objectively, a long time to go without seeing someone.
My mother, like most people in my life nineteen years ago, has grown a little fuzzy around the edges. Sure, I can tell you the name of my seventh-grade best friend, but I don’t really remember what she looked like. Or, I remember the one funny thing she said at recess, but none of the secrets we swore we would take to the grave.
And, if I were to run into those old friends now, I’m not sure what we would talk about, what we would have in common, or if I would even recognize them. I am, thank God, not the same person I was when I was twelve.
This logic of passing time falls apart when I slate my mother in for those old friends. There are thousands of conversations I wish we could have and so many things I wish I could have shared with her.
Nineteen years is a long time to go without speaking to your mother.
A life is filled with many small moments that form us into who we are. A bad haircut (please, for the love of all that is holy, NO ONE allow me to get bangs ever again), the guy that took me on a date to Whole Foods (that was, in fact, the date; we didn’t buy anything, just sat outside, to which my astute uncle said, “well, at least he didn’t take you to Aldi!”), the joy of doing a home improvement project.
It has been nineteen years, and I will never be able to tell my mother any of those things. And that is okay, most days. But some days, the weight of that reality makes me want to curl back into the safety of my sheets and cry.
I have had a hard time growing older. It’s not that I am ungrateful for every turn around the sun, but now, at 31, I worry I am too old to miss my mother. It feels childish to say that I miss her. Plus, how can you miss someone you haven’t seen in nineteen years? But then again, are we ever really too old to miss our mothers? Fuzzy as their memory may be.
Even with the passage of time, it’s impossible not to see how her life has woven into my own. Fuzzy memories or not, my mother was still my mother. And there will be a thousand more things I will long to tell her, and hundreds of days where I would give anything to call her, but I am grateful for how her memory has played through my everyday life.
Those current moments make the fuzzy memories feel a little clearer. They remind me that even though it’s been nineteen years, that is a long time to go about missing someone. She was my mother, and she was a person worth missing.
And what a privilege that is. To have someone who impacted so many people’s lives that even nineteen years later, when I meet someone who knew her, they will look at me and say, “You look so much like your mother,” or “Your mother used to say the same thing,” the fuzziness around those memories smooths.
And I will respond, “Thank you,” instead of, “I know,” because I don’t fully remember what she looked like, what her voice sounded like, or how she walked into a room. But I am so grateful for the people who do, for the people who help me remember. For the people who keep her memory alive.
Nineteen years is a long time to miss someone. But she was someone worth missing.
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