My mother died at the end of a day, at the end of a week, at the end of a month, 3 months shy of her 60th birthday.
She died in a place she loved, with a man she loved, content in the knowledge that she was as happy as she could possibly be.
As I woke the morning after her death, I realised it was the first day of my life without her in it. It was the first day I had ever experienced, that she wasn’t experiencing as well.
She lived 26 years of her life without me in it. We lived 33 years together. If I live another 26 years, I will be the age she was when she died.
I don’t know what those 26 years will hold. But they won’t hold her hugs, or her incredible problem-solving mind. They will miss her practical nature and her insight. They won’t include her smile, or her random offers to do my laundry. They won’t hold more card games, or glasses of rum and coke.
I’m sure they will hold many stories of the amazing woman she was. They will include tears as she misses major events that haven’t happened yet. They will tinge happy times with sadness as I realise she isn’t here to celebrate them with me.
My mother died exactly as she wanted — happy, quickly, painlessly. But she died 20 years too soon.
She’s off on the next adventure now, and know exactly what she’s thinking:
“Wahoo!”
