In Sandra Cisneros' "Eleven," the young female protagonist writes: "What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven."
So, on this day that approaches the one-year anniversary of my mom's death in a few days, at my current age of 52, I realize I am also:
1. My 51-year-old self who held my mother's hands as she died 367 days ago. Who laughed with her during her last 3 days. Who was fortunate to be able to tell her of my love and admiration before she was gone. The 51-year-old who was not ready to be parentless.
2. The 47-year-old parent calling her on my commute from work each day, sharing teacher stories and proud Mom stories during my oldest son's senior year. Thousands of miles away, she was a part of my daily life story
3. My 35-year-old self who called her each morning and evening, crying, revealing my broken heart and fears for my children in the midst of my divorce.
4.The 29-year-old self traveling with her to weekly garage sales, buying baby clothes, laughing when a garage sale was awful, singing a silly song left over from childhood, "Give me a J, give me a U, give me an N, give me a K. What do you have? Junk sale!" (Funny I just remembered that writing this)
5. My 27-year-old self who laughed hysterically with her as we purchased the biggest 7-11 convenience store soda made (64 or 70 oz.) in a cup so big we could not drink and still see the road.
6. The 23-year-old self who watched my mom speak with strength and courage at my dad's funeral at the hardest moment of her life.
7. My middle school-aged self who sat in admiration at Mom play an Atari duck hunting game for so long she had indentations from the game gun on the side of her nose.
8. The younger self who watched her pick up dumped cucumbers on the side of a country road and go home and pickle them. Or wield an ax or use a chainsaw on a tree. Through her, I knew women were indestructible.
SO . . . .
If it is true at 52 years of age that I am all those other ages, my mom never leaves. She never disappears. Her DNA still runs in my blood. (Since I unfortunately have the same genetic mutation that possibly led to her cancer, I now have medical proof it is true). My previous selves were molded and shaped and transformed by her personality and presence.
I know now the words I shared with her after Dad's death are oh so true:
"Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still." Henry Scott Holland
Mom, I love you. I wish you were here. Not a day has gone by where I have not missed the one person who understood me better than anyone else. I am so glad you are a part of my DNA!
